


The Only Ten I See

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Flirting, Card Games, Chicken (game of), Developing Friendships, Drunkenness, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Just an Ungodly Amount of Breakfast Food, Like Flirting Chicken, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Thirsty Hanzo Shimada, Undercover Missions, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Waffles, assholes in love, awful pet names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2019-08-20 10:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16554326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Hanzo and McCree investigate a gang running guns through a small town in rural Tennessee. There's only one bedroom in the safehouse, half the town thinks they're dating, and Hanzo is weirdly angry about McCree's tight pants.It can only escalate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> How many silly tropes can I squeeze into a single mission? Let's find out together.
> 
> Thanks to [Ryk3ld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryk3ld/pseuds/Ryk3ld/works) for the title, because I agonized for like two hours before their offhand joke turned out to be the best suggestion possible.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

Winston peered at him from over his glasses. Hanzo was still learning to read the gorilla’s expressions, but he could make an educated guess that this one was irritated. “We’ve been over this. The mission requires agents who understand this sort of thing and who know how to be discreet. If you have a candidate better qualified than yourself or Agent McCree, do send them my way.”

Hanzo clenched his jaw and looked back over the brief. Genji came to mind. Hanzo could accept that danger came with working for Overwatch, but he wouldn’t _volunteer_ his brother, even if it meant taking this job. Anyhow, the mission would put them in some tiny town in the state of Tennessee. Who knew how well a cyborg might blend in there? Still, he had no desire to take on a mission that sent him so far, with an unknown end date, with no way to see Genji or assure his safety in the meantime. “I have never been to America,” he said; he knew it was a flimsy excuse, but he had to try it.

“McCree has, and you’re fluent in English. He can handle the customs and any Spanish language issues, but he needs someone qualified to watch his back. And someone who is, ah, familiar with smuggling operations.” Winston added this with something like a grimace, as if it were distasteful to admit.

“I see,” Hanzo said slowly.

“Do you have some problem working with Agent McCree?” Winston asked.

Hanzo did, but it didn’t seem to be the sort of problem that would be persuasive to Winston. It had little to do with McCree’s professionalism. They got along well enough on the occasions they’d worked together, but their interactions rarely extended beyond training simulations.

It had more to do with who McCree _was_ : Genji’s close friend, a better brother to him than Hanzo had ever been.

“You are sending me away with a mission partner I have barely trained with. And I sincerely doubt discretion is part of his skillset.” Hanzo did his best not to sneer here; it was not Winston’s fault exactly that Overwatch had so few choices.

Winston laughed, plainly surprised, then he shook his head. “It is. Perhaps you should review your partner’s file before you ship out.”

Embarrassed, Hanzo glared back down at the tablet. He could likely still refuse, but he had promised Genji he would _try_ , and he was out of excuses. All things considered, Hanzo supposed he could think of worse people than McCree to have on a two-person job. He had at least seen the man shoot before, and he could admit to a begrudging respect for his skill. Perhaps Hanzo could speed the mission along, if McCree would cooperate. He sighed and thought again of his promise to Genji that he would commit himself to Overwatch. “When do we leave?”

 

* * *

 

He spoke to McCree once regarding the mission before they left, in a conference room during their briefing. McCree and Winston gave him some minor advice to prepare for an excursion of this nature, and Hanzo was otherwise left to his own devices. Trusted, Genji assured him, to finish preparing on his own.

The trip over was easy, if long. Doctors Ziegler and Zhou tagged along, to be dropped off later for another excursion in Boston. Their company was pleasant enough, and they kept McCree happily distracted from trying to talk to Hanzo. Hanzo spent much of his time in the cockpit, letting Lena’s friendly chatter wash over him in between bouts of sleep.

They were dropped off in Tennessee, which Hanzo fast realized was a humid, sweltering place this time of year. McCree drove them into town, fiddling with the truck’s radio until some hopelessly twangy music rang through. The drive was not a terrifically long one, but McCree filled the silence; it seemed the flights had taken their toll on his patience.

“Winston says you’ve never been to the States,” McCree said.

Hanzo only looked his way for a moment, calculating, before he turned his eyes back to the road. “That is what I told him, yes.”

“So you _did_ lie.” McCree sounded more amused than accusatory.

Hanzo had no answer to that. Now that they were here, it seemed pointless to dissemble. “I did.”

“’Cause you didn’t wanna do this mission.” It was not a question; McCree knew he’d tried to wiggle out of this. Hanzo sighed, and McCree asked, “Why? Didn’t wanna work with me?” His tone was teasing, but when Hanzo didn’t answer, McCree let out a long, heavy breath. “Not tryin’ to pry into your business. Just think it’s a good time to clear the air, if any needs clearin’.”

Trapped as he was in the car, Hanzo had limited options for his reply. He thought again about his promise to Genji that he would try to get along. “I did not wish to take a job so far away from my brother. Not so soon, and not—” Hanzo risked a glance at McCree, who only looked intent on the road, jaw set tight “— _perhaps_ not with an… unknown quantity.”

McCree seemed to find something about that funny, although the noise that left him sounded thoughtful. “Nervous about makin’ new friends?” McCree asked, but he seemed to struggle to sell this one as light-hearted.

“Is that what you hope to be?”

“Don’t really care, long as we can get the job done. It’ll go better if we aren’t both miserable, though. Better than that if it’s actually kinda fun.” McCree scratched a hand through his beard, and Hanzo couldn’t decide if it was a nervous tic or not. “So: friend _ly_ , at least. For the mission and my sanity, if nothin’ else.”

It seemed genuine. McCree’s answer hinted at some misgivings, but he was straightforward enough. “I find it difficult to believe you wish to work with _me_ ,” Hanzo admitted.

McCree said nothing for a moment, then he asked, “You gonna try it again?”

“What?” Hanzo asked, though the cold shock inside him suggested the answer before he heard it.

“What you did to Genji. You gonna try it again?”

“No,” Hanzo said, too stunned to formulate a stronger answer. The question itself didn’t surprise him, only that it had taken this long for someone in Overwatch to ask it so directly, to ask it here and now. They usually talked around it or avoided the topic altogether. Even Winston, even upon Hanzo’s recruitment.

“Then yeah, I can work with you. If it turns out you’re lyin’ about that, you and I’ll have problems. Until then, well.” McCree’s mouth pulled wryly to one side right before he shoved the end of an unlit cigar between his teeth. “I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Hanzo didn’t know whether he was supposed to laugh or not. But it was strangely refreshing, even with the lingering threat. If nothing else, he now knew exactly where McCree stood on the issue. Perhaps McCree’s plan to _clear the air_ was a good one. Hanzo thought about that, and about the way McCree had waited, ambushed him here in the truck where there was no other distraction or means of escape, and he considered that perhaps McCree was cleverer than he’d given him credit for.

True to his more typical demeanor, McCree rolled his window down, lit his cigar, and changed the topic to much lighter fare for the rest of the drive. To his own surprise, Hanzo even found himself responding from time to time, lulled nearly into a sense of complacency by McCree’s easy manner and friendly talk.

 

* * *

 

The safehouse was a literal house right on the edge of town, a tiny, worn thing with a single bedroom. A single _bed_ , which Hanzo chose to put out of his mind in favor of taking in the rest of their surroundings. Save for the kitchen, whose flaking wallpaper displayed a bizarre blend of fruits and blue flowers, the house’s walls were almost uniformly a bland, yellowy beige, textured as though to hide the shoddy craftmanship beneath. Most of the rooms were decorated with cheap prints of cowboys.

“Well, would you look at that,” McCree said with a laugh, dropping his duffel bag onto the bedroom’s creaky rocking chair.

“I’m sure you feel right at home,” Hanzo said wryly, carefully pulling his bow free of its case to inspect it after the journey.

“I think you’re tryin’ to offend me, and you have, but not the way you think.” McCree sounded amused. Hanzo couldn’t help but glance his way, but he didn’t ask questions. McCree explained anyway. “I’m still a thousand miles from home,” he said. “This is the South, but it ain’t my kinda south.”

Hanzo nodded as if he’d understood. A thousand miles, though. He’d look it up in his tablet later, unsure if it was a turn of phrase or literal. But the U.S. was enormous. It was almost unsettling to think about.

They lingered in the house for a time, checking their weapons and the house’s security. “How you wanna deal with the bed situation?” McCree asked, standing in the middle of the dusty kitchen. Having checked the faucet already, he was now testing the buttons on the stove and other appliances. “Don’t mind takin’ the couch.” He glanced up at Hanzo with a grin and a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Or snugglin’, if that’s your thing.”

Hanzo felt himself stiffen instinctively and had to immediately force himself to relax. “We can take turns. On the couch.”

He half expected McCree to argue with him, but McCree only shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

There was this too. Genji had insisted they might get along, if Hanzo allowed the opportunity. He could imagine his brother had told McCree much the same. Hanzo was not unwilling to try, and he was more than capable of being professional about it however successful the rest might be, but McCree flirted as though it were second nature.

It was by turns charming and irritating. A game Hanzo’d more than once considered taking him up on — _had_ taken him up on, when McCree had caught him off guard — and the ease with which he fell into it was troubling if he let himself think too long on it. McCree was easy to get along with, even if it sometimes seemed deliberately crafted to be that way.

With an ocean between here and the Watchpoint, Hanzo wondered if it would remain easy. He wondered, too, whether that was something he should worry about.

 

* * *

 

There was a diner within walking distance of the safehouse and a biker bar just down the road. It seemed likely that a gang in the area would frequent either of the two. There were other places in town to investigate, but McCree declared with a growling stomach that they should start with the diner.

The linoleum felt sticky under Hanzo’s boots, grimy from the years in a way that no amount of cleaning could fix. The few patrons stared as they walked in, and Hanzo felt strangely self-conscious. He had done his best to take some of McCree’s advice to heart, bought cheap, fitted jeans and a pair of workman’s boots and scuffed them all to add some authenticity. But it was hot, and he hadn’t bothered to wear more than the plain black t-shirt. He saw them staring at his tattoo and at his face, and he felt, keenly, the sense that he didn’t belong here.

McCree moved from behind him as if he noticed none of these things, swaggering even here, to grab a seat at a nearby table. Hanzo only followed, and the patrons mostly turned back to their meals. Two young women in the corner continued to stare; they seemed to think themselves subtle, but Hanzo kept catching it. They giggled to each other, and he flushed to realize he’d imagined them briefly as potential threats.

Their server got on well with McCree. He’d mentioned in passing that older women had always liked him, and Sharon was no different, took to his flirting with a fine blend of skeptical and charmed. “Don’t mind the looks,” she said. “We don’t often get your type comin’ through here.”

“And what’s our type?” McCree asked, grinning up at her.

“I’m sure those gals over there’d love to know,” Sharon said with a laugh. “You boys hang around a while, you’ll hafta wave ’em off with a stick. Nothin’ but trouble.” She was smiling though, and she left with their order.

The silence between them was, if not amiable, at least not unpleasant. It seemed McCree wasn’t going to break it, for once, and Hanzo was grateful enough for it that he caught himself nearly smiling at Sharon when she brought their coffees. When Hanzo looked back, McCree was watching him. “What?”

“Nothin’, just funny seein’ you outta your element.” Hanzo didn’t care to inquire further what he meant by that. McCree took a sip of the coffee and looked surprised enough that Hanzo hesitated on drinking his own. “It’s good,” he said.

Hanzo sipped his and found it to be true. “That surprises you?”

McCree laughed. “Guess you haven’t eaten at a place like this before. Greasy spoon coffee only ever tastes like heaven or boiled dirt, nothin’ in between.”

Hanzo snorted, took another sip. He had never been much for coffee, so he supposed he didn’t have the palate to know the difference. “I’ll take your word for it.”

They enjoyed their coffee quietly until Sharon returned with the food. Hanzo’s plate had plain toast and two eggs. It had seemed the simplest option on the menu, but the fried eggs practically swam in oil, and he poked at them warily. McCree seemed to have no such misgivings; he poured a veritable lake of syrup over his waffles and ate them with noises that made Hanzo’s face heat up. “Must you?” he asked primly, and McCree swallowed his mouthful of food.

“Sorry, ’s been a long time since I had waffles. And these are great.” He raised his voice. “These are great, Sharon!” Hanzo wanted to shrink into his seat. Nothing about McCree right now matched up to Winston’s insistence on discretion. McCree clearly saw his embarrassment but only grinned at him and took a bite of bacon. “You wanna try some?”

“You are a menace,” Hanzo said, ignoring the question.

“You don’t get to judge. I’m hungry, and I love waffles.” Hanzo only looked back, nibbled on his toast. McCree watched him for a second. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had ’em.”

Hanzo sighed. “I haven’t.” His father had not been keen on sweet foods or anything else declared unfit for a healthy body, and waffles had been far from Hanzo’s biggest priority when he began to shed those old habits.

“You’re kidding.” Hanzo shook his head. McCree sawed at the pile with his knife, then shoved his fork at Hanzo, syrup dripping on the table between them. When Hanzo only stared, McCree stabbed the fork in his direction. “You gotta try it now.”

Hanzo really didn’t need him to continue making a scene. He leaned over the table and took a bite. McCree’s eyes went a little wide, and Hanzo realized belatedly he’d probably meant for Hanzo to take the fork. He backed up, chewing, and McCree snatched his hand away. Hanzo wiped syrup from his bottom lip, licked it off the tip of his finger, and McCree looked studiously at his plate.

McCree cleared his throat. “Your verdict?”

“It’s good,” Hanzo said with a shrug.

“That’s all? You’re hopeless, I’m tellin’ you.” McCree sighed, and he went back to his food. But Hanzo shoved his plate of eggs aside and ordered his own waffles, and McCree gave him a funny, lopsided grin.

 

* * *

 

They wandered later in the day, took in the shops and restaurants downtown. Many of the buildings were ancient brick and huge windows full of glass that had begun to warp; it was all weathered and crumbling like the house, like the diner and the roads they’d come in on. Nothing about the place suggested it might be home to a gang, but Hanzo supposed an outsider might have thought the same about Hanamura, if for different reasons.

They went to the biker bar that night, and Hanzo found he fit in better there than at the diner, but they found little more than they had elsewhere. They each drank just enough to blend in. They got no real leads, but McCree made one of the bartenders laugh, got friendly enough to get a further feel for the town.

The house after wasn’t as awkward as it seemed it should have been. Hanzo showered, rinsing off the smell of the old bar and feeling curiously self-conscious with the knowledge that McCree was somewhere nearby. He dressed and found McCree at the kitchen table humming some song to himself while he polished his gun, the whole thing disassembled in tidy pieces. McCree acknowledged him with only a grunt, too focused, and Hanzo went back to bed and resolutely did not think about the tender deftness of McCree’s hands.

In the morning, while McCree jogged and showered, Hanzo checked the morning news for any hints of local gang activity. When McCree emerged from the bathroom, it was in far fewer layers than usual, his undershirt clinging valiantly to his still-damp skin. Hanzo stared harder at the tablet. At least McCree had put on proper pants, though the denim was worn in places and tight enough across his thighs that it made Hanzo slightly irritable.

For breakfast, they went back to the diner, where Sharon greeted them as before. McCree smirked when Hanzo ordered waffles again.

“And what are you two gettin’ into today?” she asked.

“Little sight-seeing, maybe a little trouble,” McCree answered, and she laughed.

“Got your hands full with this one, don’t you?” she asked Hanzo, who could only smile and nod, not entirely certain how the question was meant.

Sharon asked them what they were doing in town. “Just takin’ a nice vacation before it gets too hot,” McCree answered. “City life gets under my skin after a while.”

“I hear that,” she said with a laugh. “Y’all get to take vacations together often?”

Something about the way she asked it grabbed Hanzo’s attention again, but it was McCree who answered. “Not as much as we’d like to, that’s for sure. But he’s real into old towns like these. Just loves his antiques.”

Hanzo shot him a glare. This was not the cover story they’d discussed. “One of us has to have some taste,” he said. Sharon laughed at them both.

“You two are cute as a button.”

McCree beamed at her then winked at Hanzo, who saved his answering glare until Sharon had walked away. “I don’t believe _that_ was necessary.”

McCree only shrugged. “Gotta roll with it sometimes,” he said. It itched at Hanzo, but he didn’t argue. Couldn’t, in public like this. Whatever Sharon saw, it was best to be those men. They’d be more forgettable, in the end. Still, when McCree asked, “Could you pass the syrup, buttercup?” Hanzo slid it hard enough across the table that it knocked McCree’s half-drunk coffee into his lap. He worked very hard to look concerned about it, too.

Hanzo had to stare into his plate of waffles while McCree scrubbed at his wet pants, but it was nonetheless worth it to hear him complain about chafing all the way back to the house.

After McCree got cleaned up again, dressed himself in another pair of jeans no less obscene than the first, Hanzo confronted him. “You changed our cover story. Without asking.”

“She saw what she did, and arguin’ the point was gonna stick out,” McCree said with a shrug.

“I’m not unaware of how to do this job,” Hanzo said. “But we are partners, are we not?”

McCree stared at him for a moment then, as if assessing him. “We are,” he answered slowly.

“Then you do not get to make decisions for both of us.”

McCree looked as though he meant to argue then thought better of it. The measuring look did not go away. “Fair enough,” he said. “I’m more used to workin’ alone, but I can do better to run it by you first. You gotta be willing to improvise though.”

Hanzo had to work to unclench his jaw. Although McCree’s condescension to tell Hanzo how to do his job grated, his willingness to concede the point was an unexpected olive branch. “Of course,” Hanzo said. After a moment, he smirked, and he enjoyed the way McCree tried to hide his squirming. “I hope you don’t find that dating me was a mistake.”

 

* * *

 

They did indeed decide to go to the antique stores. Partly it seemed necessary for the cover McCree had so blithely changed, but partly, too, it made sense to look into everything they could, particularly locations that might have large storage capacities. He wandered through one musty shop, trailed fingers over some “authentic” Japanese antiques.

McCree smiled at him a little funny, hands in his pockets. “Enjoyin’ yourself, darlin’?” he asked, and Hanzo found himself irritated to realize that he might be.

“These are cheap. Manufactured for Westerners who don’t know any better. Overpriced.” Still, he ran a finger down a cabinet door, traced the lines of the branches carved into it.

“Pardon?” came a voice, and he turned, found a young white woman staring at him, her arms crossed. “You got a problem with the merchandise?”

Hanzo felt embarrassed, caught out as he was. McCree came to his rescue. “No insult meant, ma’am. But he knows his stuff.”

“Some kind of appraiser?” She looked skeptical.

“I grew up in a very… traditional household. I’ve seen the real thing.” She seemed to relax a little. “You may have been misled about these items.”

She hummed to herself. “You think they’re fake?”

He looked at the one under his hand again. “Not fake. Mass produced. This piece can’t be more than twenty years old.”

She nodded, looked thoughtful. “That’s been here since before I took over. Pop never did do enough research. I’ll have to call in a real appraiser, I guess. ’Til then, you mind tellin’ me if I got anything that _is_ authentic?”

Hanzo walked her through the pieces, pointed out and translated the labels for different factories throughout Japan — in lucky cases — and elsewhere that marked her pieces as mass produced. She took it surprisingly well, laughing when he translated some of the writing as only rubbish, some jumbled unrelated words and some entirely made up. There were others that were harder to identify, but he could still share the sense that they hadn’t been handcrafted and certainly had not earned the respect of age. But they did find a tea bowl, shot through with gold where it had been cracked before. He told her to double her asking rate on that one.

McCree wore that funny smile as they left, and Hanzo enjoyed watching it falter briefly when he slung an arm around McCree’s waist. “A better boyfriend would have bought me that bowl,” Hanzo said.

“Well shit, sugar, I didn’t know it was like that.” He sounded as though he weren’t entirely sure of himself, for once. “You didn’t ask.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Hanzo insisted, made himself sound as petulant as his pride would allow, and McCree let out a chuckle.

“I’ll make it up to you. Dinner’s on me.”

The restaurant might have been some form of payback: it was a big place with giant antlers mounted on the walls, where there weren’t entire animal heads. McCree got a massive steak that made Hanzo a little sick to think about and introduced him to the concept of sweet, cold tea. Hanzo took one sip and refused to drink it, declared it an abomination and watched in horror as McCree drained both their glasses.

He was surprised to find that he enjoyed himself, although he supposed he should not have been by now. Out of the Watchpoint and unburdened by the intense focus on their larger directive, McCree was funny, if sometimes incomprehensible. He was sharp and direct, a little disarming. He made it easy to forget how easily he could kill a man.

“Well, ain’t that a sight,” McCree said, looking right at him. Hanzo felt his hand tense a little on his fork, a bite of fish halfway to his mouth. He realized he’d been smiling. “You in a good mood for once?”

“I’m sure it will pass if you continue talking.”

“Hell of a way to talk to the love of your life,” McCree said with a smirk.

“I never said I loved you for your wit.”

“ _Ouch_. You callin’ me dumb?” McCree’s eyes went wide with feigned injury.

Hanzo could feel the smile on his face, struggling to break free even as he tried to school it to something more stern. “If you have to _ask_ … Well. It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

For the barest second, McCree looked genuinely surprised, which Hanzo suspected he only caught because he’d just seen the false version. Then McCree snorted at him and went back to his food, although he kept glancing back at Hanzo with a tiny smile on his face. It seemed almost smug. But he looked up once more, and his expression snapped suddenly into something far more serious. He tapped his metal hand on the table, drew Hanzo’s attention, and jerked his chin almost imperceptibly.

Hanzo risked a quick glance over his shoulder at the men McCree had indicated. There were three of them, dressed like the bikers in the bar, but they had no qualms about walking around armed. _Subtle_ , Hanzo huffed quietly to himself. They walked to the back of the restaurant, didn’t seem to notice Hanzo and McCree. The two of them weren’t the only patrons watching anyway, and they were far less conspicuous about it than the others.

The men disappeared through some door marked Employees Only, and Hanzo relaxed a little. Some kind of backroom deal then, maybe just a shakedown for the owner of the restaurant. Whatever they were doing, they weren’t going to put on a big show here.

“They got some fine food here,” McCree said, made a show of stretching and patting his stomach. “Think we could try this place again?”

Hanzo nodded.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo crept around the back of the restaurant, but he only found an off-duty waiter enjoying a smoke break. He watched for a moment, breathed through his mouth to avoid the stench of the nearby dumpster, but he saw nothing else useful. He made his way back around, a different way than he’d come, and found McCree loitering outside the restaurant, finishing off a smoke.

“You find your wallet alright, darlin’? Took you a minute.”

There were people out on the sidewalks, throwing passing glances their way. Hanzo pulled out his wallet and waved it at McCree. On a whim, he then plucked the cigar from McCree’s mouth, watching McCree’s eyes widen while he slowly took a drag. When he was finished, he asked, “Did you remember where you parked the car?” McCree nodded mutely.

They didn’t follow the gang members, but McCree had seen their car, memorized the details. It was a lead, at least.

Back at the house, McCree tried to get him to play a guessing game: extortion or a cover for their shipments? Hanzo shrugged. “Why not both?” He described how they had done it in Hanamura sometimes, used the supply room under the ramen shop to stash smaller crates of guns among the food stores.

McCree seemed to find the answer funny, then suggested they try the bar again. They did, and McCree talked Hanzo into a game of darts while they waited. He did better than Hanzo expected, even when Hanzo pressed up on his toes to rest his chin on McCree’s shoulder; McCree still lost, but he accepted it gracefully. The men from the restaurant did show up, but they only drank and kept to themselves at a table in the corner.

Hanzo and McCree snugged up to the bar, turned so they could eye the crowd. They kept up the appearance of idle chatter, and McCree kept his hip wedged up against Hanzo’s, one arm draped over his shoulder. He remained that way, a warm presence dedicated to trying to one-up Hanzo, until a woman approached the bar. She was petite, with blonde curls tumbling over her suntanned shoulders. Hanzo couldn’t place her age well, but she wasn’t young, exactly.

She eyed McCree, and Hanzo felt something like anger spike in his stomach. It had no right to be there; he blamed the cheap whiskey and set the glass down immediately. “Aren’t you a tall drink of water?” she cooed.

McCree let go of Hanzo and leaned back against the bar, gave her a slow smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Have I seen you around before? You look familiar.” She continued to eye McCree over her drink. Hanzo couldn’t tell if it was a line or not.

“We were here last night.”

“I wasn’t. Think I would’ve noticed you.”

“Ah, well. Been told I got one of those faces.” McCree scratched a hand through his beard, then stuck it out. “Name’s John.”

She took it, lingered too long. “Natalie. And your friend?”

“Boyfriend,” Hanzo corrected. He didn’t offer his hand.

“I see,” she answered slowly, but her smirk didn’t fade. “Can I buy you boys a drink?” Hanzo could feel her smile crawling unpleasantly under his skin.

“How ’bout a rain check?” McCree asked, flashed her another little grin. “We were just about to head out.”

She excused herself, plainly disappointed, and Hanzo felt relieved, and annoyed that it had bothered him so. They paid for their drinks and left, but not before they saw her move to sit with the gang members they’d been tailing. Hanzo told himself he’d known it in his gut, and the rest had only been the whiskey.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they are rained in and forced to get a little domestic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to [coinin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coinin/profile) and [mataglap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/profile) for the beta job! 
> 
> I also owe some credit for McCree's feelings about cats to some Twitter goofing with [Theoroark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theoroark/profile).

McCree had aptly declared the couch “uglier than sin”, but it had seemed to make up for its faded brown plaid and its suspicious stains with worn, overstuffed cushions. Sitting upright on the couch was a pleasant enough experience; sleeping was an altogether different story. Horizontality revealed the sagging at the middle and every golfball-sized lump in the stuffing. Hanzo woke up early after a restless night, aching from neck to knees and with his back protesting every movement. He’d been hospitalized in less pain.

He sullenly incorporated a great deal more stretching into his morning routine than usual. To add insult to injury, oncoming rain chased him back into the house from the tiny, fenced yard. He had to finish in the living room, confronted by the source of his misery with only a battered coffee table between them. Between his irritation and the noise of McCree moving clumsily through the house behind him, he struggled to maintain any sort of focus.

While he took a luxuriously long shower and tested the limits of the house’s water heater, he visualized setting the couch on fire. He considered renegotiating their terms, but McCree had slept on the damnable piece of furniture the night before. He was several inches too large for the couch in the first place, yet he hadn’t complained once, nor had he moved like he was trying to hide the pain. Hanzo was begrudgingly impressed by the feat. He supposed he could ask to have the bed while McCree took the couch, but however well McCree hid his suffering, Hanzo strongly suspected he _was_ hiding it. Hanzo did not think Genji would be convinced of his commitment to growth if he took such an obviously selfish route. Besides, it felt like an admission of weakness.

There was of course another alternative. The bed was large enough for two, especially after Hanzo had shoved the dozen or so pointless throw pillows into the closet. Entirely unbidden, the memory arose of McCree suggesting that they _snuggle_. The heat in Hanzo’s cheeks was equally uninvited. For reasons he was not interested in interrogating, sharing the bed seemed like a particularly bad idea. He resolved that if McCree could suffer the couch in silence, so could he.

He was temporarily consoled, at least, by the sight of an absolutely soaked McCree dripping miserably onto the kitchen floor, although Hanzo’s amusement was tempered by annoyance at the growing puddle at McCree’s feet. He worked to have no thoughts at all about the way McCree’s jogging clothes seemed vacuum-sealed to every part of his body.

“How was your run?” Hanzo asked mildly.

“Just peachy,” McCree said as he wrung out the end of his shirt directly onto the floor. Hanzo felt an eyelid twitch, and McCree smirked. “How’d you sleep?”

“Great.”

Somehow this only made McCree’s smirk bigger. “That so? ’Cause you know, if you were uncomfortable, we could try sharin’. Bed’s pretty big. Wouldn’t even really have to cuddle.”

So much for suffering in silence. If Hanzo wanted the opportunity to renegotiate, this was it. McCree’s acknowledgment of the couch meant Hanzo would not even have to be the first to concede. Then the smirk became an outright grin, all teeth. Hanzo had to remind himself that hitting his mission partner would be deeply unprofessional. “Unless you wanted to.”

Hanzo stared flatly back, and he very carefully willed his fist to unclench. “You are dripping everywhere. Go clean up.”

 

* * *

 

By the time McCree had finished his shower — which did not take long at all, as Hanzo had made sure to use up the hot water — the rain was coming down in sheets, the sound of it a dull roar on the roof of the house. Judging by the slow rolling under his skin, the dragons seemed to enjoy the weather, but Hanzo himself was put off by it. He was frustrated by the thought of delays to their mission and of being stuck in close quarters with nothing to do. It moved under his skin like the dragons, an anticipatory energy that he wasn’t sure how to burn off.

If they were lucky, the storm would pass quickly, or at least lessen enough that they might take a late breakfast at the diner again. Hanzo eyed the mysterious rations stored in the safehouse pantry and thought longingly of waffles.

As the rain dragged on, both their moods began to sour. Hanzo attempted to busy himself reading the morning news, moving in a broadening spiral from local to international, but McCree’s growing restlessness prevented him from absorbing most of the details. McCree shifted frequently in his chair, tapping his foot to some internal rhythm and chewing his way through a stash of toothpicks so extensive that Hanzo wondered where he kept them all.

Eventually they were forced to concede that the diner might be a poor idea, and Hanzo used the ancient microwave to heat up the contents of one of the ration packets. The maple sausage was better than expected, but still a far cry from the foods they’d eaten just the day before. Hanzo ate slowly just to prolong the experience of having something to do, and he watched McCree do the same. McCree’s face was shuttered off again, the way it had been when he’d cleaned his gun, and Hanzo allowed himself to wonder if McCree was only moody due to the rain, or if this was another glimpse at the things that lurked beneath the more pleasant exterior.

The toothpicks reemerged after breakfast. When Hanzo suggested they review their mission notes, McCree only grunted his agreement, and Hanzo watched him chew instead on the end of his stylus or tap it rhythmically against his lip as he read. The mission notes were exactly as they had been the day before, and most of them were older, compiled during the original brief. Hanzo had already read those a dozen times. Still it was something to do, and he did a good enough job focusing until he glanced up to find McCree reading with his brows intently drawn and his lips pursed _around_ the stylus.

It was not easier to focus after that, but it was certainly easier to pretend to.

Hanzo was busy listening to the drum of McCree’s fingers on the kitchen table, struggling not to watch the end of the stylus disappear between McCree’s lips again, when the epiphany struck. He felt a bit ashamed that it had taken him so long to realize — he had, after all, spent a not-insignificant portion of his early adulthood dealing in a variety of addictive substances — but he was willing to blame McCree for distracting him. “You do not need to put off smoking on my account.” McCree stilled, stylus dangling briefly from his mouth before he snatched it out, appearing uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Just… do it by the window.” Hanzo’s voice was tighter than it ought to have been for someone attempting to be generous; he could sense McCree’s agitation spreading like a sickness, and he wanted it gone.

“That obvious, huh?” McCree asked. He might have even looked sheepish.

“ _Painfully_ so.” He bit down on other, unkind words, and he watched McCree move to the window, clearly trying not to appear hasty and failing quite spectacularly. McCree leaned over the counter to pry open the window over the sink, and his shoulders relaxed even before he lit up, as if only knowing he could smoke had a calming effect.

Hanzo waited long enough for the irritation to subside, then he seized on some reasonably safe topic to fill the silence. He asked, “Do you think that woman recognized you?”

McCree blew a stream of smoke out the window before he turned to regard Hanzo, hip pressed against the counter. “Maybe. Doubt it, though.”

“You look exactly like your wanted poster.”

“Most folks aren’t really lookin’ that hard.”

“You could at least cut your hair. Maybe dye it.” McCree looked deeply unimpressed. Hanzo smirked. “Or shave your face.”

McCree laughed, more at ease and more his usual self with some nicotine and conversation. He scrubbed his fingers through his beard. “I worked damn hard to live this long, and I wanna look my age. I look like a kid under here.”

Hanzo had to resist the urge to touch his own hair, thinking of the early grays that became obvious if he let the undercut grow too long. “Now I _must_ see that.”

“I’m startin’ to think you just don’t like the beard. Were you lyin’ when you called me pretty?” McCree grinned at him, one side of his mouth rising higher than the other.

Hanzo did not roll his eyes or blush at the question, nor did he linger on the sudden desire to know whether McCree had dimples hidden beneath the beard. All of these took some small measure of willpower. “We were discussing your need for a disguise, not stroking your ego. You also need an ashtray.”

That seemed to prevent McCree’s teasing from gaining any momentum. Instead he scrambled through the cabinets until he found an old coffee mug, and he left Hanzo in peace while he smoked the rest of his cigar.

 

* * *

 

The rain persisted, but by midday it dwindled to something more tolerable than the thick sheets from before. At least it seemed they would be able to see past the ends of their own noses. They discussed using the reprieve to check into some of the shops they hadn’t gotten to the day before. McCree also had other ideas. “I’m thinkin’ we should pick up some food while we’re out,” he said, poking at his suspicious-looking lunch rations. “Food like groceries. From the store.”

It was a sensible suggestion, but Hanzo nonetheless felt himself go very still. “You expect us to be here long enough to need them?” he asked as casually as he could.

“I expect it’ll take more than a few days, and a man can’t live off waffles and MREs alone.”

“From the way you eat them, I would have thought you _could_.”

The joke felt too flat in his mouth, and McCree clearly sensed it. Instead of laughing, McCree gave him a wan half-smile and said, “You thought this was gonna be, what? A two-day operation?”

“No.”

“But you’re bothered by the idea of groceries.”

More of McCree’s curiosity translated into a definitive statement. It dug under Hanzo’s skin, and it was easier to focus on that than to once again ruminate on Genji and all the time Hanzo was wasting halfway around the world. He had no wish to share any of this with McCree. He said, “I do not know how to cook.”

McCree stared at him too long, lower lip caught briefly between his teeth as if to hold something at bay. When he spoke again, Hanzo was struck with the strange certainty that it wasn’t his first choice of words. “You’re almost forty and you never learned to cook?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“ _How_?” McCree asked him.

His surprise seemed entirely genuine, which only irked Hanzo more. “You seem to enjoy telling me about myself. I’m sure you can guess what circumstances led my culinary education to stagnate.”

McCree surprised him again, this time by barking out a laugh. “Fair enough,” he said, and as far as McCree seemed concerned, there was no further tension. Hanzo took longer to recover, but he did eventually agree to consider grocery shopping.

 

* * *

 

Few people cared to venture out in this weather, which meant fewer witnesses to their skulking about. The downside was that those who did see them were bound to find it odd. When, at the second shop in a row, the saleswoman on duty expressed surprise to see anyone out in the rain, they cut short the day’s investigation. There was no reason to draw that sort of attention to themselves, and McCree’s charming — and true — insistence that they were going stir crazy inside the house could only do so much to prevent them from sticking out.

The rain grew heavier again, but even the weather could not dissuade McCree from his idea to pick up groceries. If anything, it only seemed to reassure him that this was the correct course of action. Curling his lip at the feel of damp clothing moving against his skin, Hanzo followed McCree through the store. He even let McCree take the lead on shopping; Hanzo might normally have felt irritated by how ready McCree seemed to do so, but here he could admit he had little to no expertise and thus had no right to feel offended that McCree thought he knew more than Hanzo did. Besides, contrary to Hanzo’s suspicions about him, McCree put more vegetables in their cart than anything else and inquired politely after Hanzo’s food preferences before making his selections.

While McCree took far too much time investigating eggs, Hanzo managed to overcome his own shame in order to ask if McCree knew how to make waffles. McCree reminded him that neither the house nor the store had a waffle iron. Hanzo could find it in himself to tolerate McCree’s condescending tone, but he was not sure he could forgive the peculiar, patronizing smile that came with it.

At the checkout aisle, they were joined by a familiar face. “Well, if it ain’t my new favorite customers,” said Sharon. She was still in uniform and smelled faintly of bacon grease, which Hanzo found oddly endearing.

Hanzo smiled, and so did McCree, beaming at her like he refused to be outdone. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” McCree said politely, reaching up as if to tip a hat that was not there. “Just gettin’ off work?”

“Oh no, I just love the uniform that much,” she said, even cheekier now that she was off the clock. “I missed you two this morning.”

The queue moved forward, and Hanzo unloaded their groceries at the conveyor belt, only for McCree to rearrange them for no reason Hanzo could discern. He might have concluded that McCree was only fucking with him, except that he was sure he saw genuine exasperation flash across McCree’s face. “That monsoon you had kept us in the house,” McCree said as he swapped the positions of the eggs and tomatoes.

“For which I and his waistline are both grateful,” Hanzo said with a doting smile carefully calculated to remove any sting from the words. McCree spluttered, and Hanzo had trouble deciding whether his indignation was real.

“Says the guy who was practically beggin’ me to make him waffles not ten minutes ago.” McCree’s smile might have convinced Sharon, but there was a challenge there just for Hanzo.

They exchanged a few more words with her, the sort of small talk that McCree seemed to excel at and that Hanzo was growing more comfortable with, at least as long as he had a character to play. Sharon seemed charmed by the both of them; McCree was likely used to it, but it was a rare experience for Hanzo. It was nice, in some ways, to be this person who made other people smile and engaged in idle chatter in line at the supermarket. McCree’s body language shifted subtly, and he moved closer to Hanzo to touch him casually when he could and to angle his body toward him when he could not. It was admittedly a solid performance, had a naturalness to it that was hard to fake. But the smugness lurking in the corners of McCree’s smile remained, a silent dare whenever their eyes met.

When it was time to pay, Hanzo realized an opportunity for petty vengeance. He moved swiftly, pressed in close, and he slipped his hand into McCree’s back pocket, positively savoring the unfiltered surprise on McCree’s face. Given McCree’s standard taste in denim, the confines of his pocket were absurdly tight. It made the task far more difficult than it ought to have been. “You’re paying,” Hanzo said with a vicious smirk as he finally wiggled McCree’s wallet free to wave it in front of his face.

McCree only nodded back. “Looks like I am,” he said after a moment.

 

* * *

 

McCree declared that breakfast had been a bust — he had not had the maple sausage, but something far more unfortunate, it seemed — so he intended to make omelets. He intended for _them_ to make omelets, actually.

“I still can’t believe you’ve lived this long and don’t know the first thing about cookin’.”

“I am not entirely helpless,” Hanzo groused.

McCree did not turn away from cracking his eggs into a bowl. “I don’t know,” he said, almost sing-song. “Do we need to go over knife safety?” He laughed at himself, or perhaps because he could actually feel Hanzo’s glare boring into the back of his head.

Despite his teasing, McCree did _generously_ decide he trusted Hanzo enough to chop vegetables. Both of them moving about the kitchen at the same time made the space seem suddenly much smaller than it had been before, but the process went surprisingly smoothly, with Hanzo chopping and McCree doing the actual cooking. Hanzo elected to keep his mouth shut about the vaguely nauseating quantities of butter involved.

Hanzo dumped his vegetable scraps down the disposal in the sink while McCree plated their food. Neither had to speak to agree to pair their food with the whiskey they’d also secured on the way back from the store.

“You tossed that onion peel in the trash, right?” McCree asked as he settled at the kitchen table.

“Of course,” Hanzo lied. He had no idea why it should matter anyway.

McCree insisted on calling their meal “brinner”, which Hanzo aggressively protested, but it was an otherwise pleasant experience. Certainly the omelets, heinous amounts of butter aside, were far better than the MREs, and the small diced potatoes were good enough that had McCree not been McCree, Hanzo may have spent a good five minutes complimenting the chef.

With full stomachs and each on their second drink — from coffee mugs, as they had yet to find any sort of drinking glass in the house — they debated what next to do. It was too early to go to bed, and still too rainy to do much of anything else. McCree suggested cards, and Hanzo couldn’t find it in him to decline. He could, however, insist on picking the game.

McCree wagged a scolding finger at him. “You grabbed my ass in public. Didn’t even discuss it first. I think I get to decide our card game.”

“I grabbed your wallet,” Hanzo answered, perhaps too quickly.

“That’s worse, honestly. Yet here you are, face unpunched. You definitely owe me.” McCree sat back and shuffled the cards, watching Hanzo and clearly poised to say more if Hanzo tried to argue with him.

It may have been the whiskey’s influence, but Hanzo wasn’t interested in arguing anyway. He was too distracted by puzzling over the exchange. McCree could easily have leveraged cooking dinner or sharing his alcohol, but he’d chosen to prioritize _that_ instead.

Unsurprisingly, McCree suggested poker, but he also proposed a twist: the winner could ask the loser a question that the loser had to answer in good faith. “Don’t know that much about you,” McCree said with a shrug.

“I’m sure my brother has told you enough.”

“Not as much as you seem to think.”

Although Hanzo did not buy for a moment that it was as casual as McCree was suggesting, there seemed little harm in it. He could think of a few questions he might never have the nerve to ask McCree without some excuse. Besides, Hanzo had seen more than enough gambling in his time; he certainly knew his way around a game of poker, even if two-man games were rare. He was reasonably confident in his skills.

Hanzo didn’t take it too poorly when McCree won the first hand. He only raised an expectant eyebrow and sipped delicately from his mug of whiskey.

McCree shuffled the cards and made a show of thinking hard before he asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

The simplicity of the question did nothing to make Hanzo less suspicious, yet it still took him a moment to answer. “Blue.”

McCree hummed thoughtfully and dealt another hand. He won again. “What shade of blue?”

“I don’t know. _Blue_.”

“Right, but there’s a whole lot of blue in the world. Maybe I’m imagining a navy blue and you’re talkin’ about your favorite pastels.” It was ridiculous, and McCree seemed overly invested in the answer. As if he knew somehow that continuing to press would make Hanzo uncomfortable.

“Sapphires. That color.”

McCree dealt again. He won again. “Why that shade?”

“Because I enjoy it.”

“You like it because you like it? That’s not an answer.”

“I read once that blue is the most popular color in the world. Do you plan to ask billions of people this same question?”

“No, I’m askin’ you.”

Hanzo sighed. “Sometimes a preference is only a preference.”

“And sometimes folks get cagey when you hit on somethin’ they feel weird answering.” McCree had the nerve to wink at him.

Hanzo glared over the rim of his mug, exasperated. He set it down slowly and leaned in over the table to hold McCree’s eye. “When my mother died, my father hid every picture of her, as if she had never existed at all. But I managed to steal just one. It’s the color she wore in that picture.”

McCree’s only answer was a quiet “oh.” He was plainly discomfited, and Hanzo found it easier to feel smug over this effect than to waste time reflecting on why he’d bothered to share the story at all.

Eager to leave the awkward silence behind, Hanzo snatched the cards away. “Let me have those. You are obviously cheating.” Hanzo shuffled and dealt, and he watched McCree’s hands closely this time. McCree won again without a hint of foul play. “You do not get to ask me anything if you cheated to win,” Hanzo said stubbornly.

“I promise I’m just that lucky. But fine, I’ll forfeit this question, and we can try somethin’ more your speed.”

In order to resist the recurring urge to punch the smirk off McCree’s face, Hanzo sipped again at the cheap whiskey and visualized lighting the couch on fire with McCree on it this time. McCree shuffled and dealt for the new game, explaining the modifications to their earlier rules.

Hanzo sighed, as long and loudly as he was able, to ensure that McCree knew exactly what he thought of this new game. “Do you have an eight?”

“Go fish,” McCree said around a poorly disguised snicker. Once he composed himself, he asked, “Cats or dogs?”

“Cats.”

“Big surprise,” McCree said. His tone suggested it was not a surprise at all.

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It ain’t your turn to ask,” McCree said with another snicker. There was too much color in his cheeks, and Hanzo felt embarrassed, wondering if he’d been fleeced at cards by someone who was tipsier than he was. “Got a six?”

“Go fish,” Hanzo said, more enthusiastically than intended. “What does ‘big surprise’ mean?” Hanzo demanded, and he immediately regretted it. He’d meant to take the opportunity to ask about Genji, and here McCree had annoyed him enough to distract him from it.

“It means of _course_ you prefer cats. Prob’ly think they’re all grace and independence and deadly killers because you think that’s relatable, but what you actually have in common is that you’re vain, prefer to be alone, and there’s no tellin’ whether you’ll purr or bite when someone’s tryin’ to be nice to you.” McCree seemed terribly pleased with himself, and Hanzo had no way to respond that wouldn’t vindicate at least one of his statements. “Cats are just mean disasters who tear up your shit and love boxes more than they love people. You really think that’s better than a good dog?”

Hanzo grit his teeth and responded flatly, “It is not your turn to ask.” McCree’s answering laugh was far too smug. The more Hanzo glared, the more McCree laughed. It was a perverse reaction to a look that Hanzo knew struck fear into the hearts of most people. “Do you have a queen?” Hanzo asked, and he watched McCree struggle to rein himself in.

“Go fish,” he managed to answer.

“Do you need a moment?” Hanzo asked.

“No, I’m— I’m good.” The little bubble of a laugh that followed suggested he was lying. McCree cleared his throat, lips pressed tight together, then he breathed out hard and finally managed to school his face into something more serious. “Alright, what’s so bad about actually goin’ on missions? It’s what you signed up for when you joined.”

Hanzo took a sip of his drink to collect himself. “What, no analysis based on my favorite vegetable?”

“That’s a good one! But no, only thing I could think to ask was either that or gettin’ you to play Fuck, Marry, Kill with some of our teammates, and that seemed too unprofessional even for me. But if you’d rather answer that one, I won’t tell if you won’t.” McCree’s grin might have been disarming if Hanzo had not already experienced his particular method of interrogation.

“Fuck Reinhardt, marry Lúcio, kill the Bastion unit.”

McCree let out a low, quiet whistle. It was a beat too long before he said, “Dangerous answer. And not who I would’ve picked to ask about, ’cept maybe Reinhardt.” He smirked again, but there was something to it that made Hanzo take pause.

“What does—” He stopped himself, watching McCree’s smirk widen and knowing his infuriating companion was ready to tell him again that it wasn’t his turn to ask. Presumably choosing to kill the Bastion over their human teammates was not so dangerous, although perhaps McCree now thought his biases against omnics ran much deeper than they did. He thought about Lúcio, trying to remember anything relevant at all, and he realized that the last time he’d seen him, he had also seen Genji in truly rare form: laughing freely and speaking quickly enough to trip over his words. “Oh,” Hanzo said, and McCree raised an eyebrow. His smirk now read as an invitation to conspiracy, and Hanzo wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it. He wondered if Genji had said something to McCree, or if McCree only had better practice watching him. There was something sobering about it either way. “I’m a fool for overlooking Dr. Zhou on the first pass. I’d much rather marry her.” Hanzo intended it to come off lightly, but he wasn’t convinced that it did. He braced himself for whatever McCree was going to say next.

“You gonna take your turn, or are you gonna keep delayin’ my inevitable victory?”

Hanzo didn’t believe for a moment that McCree hadn’t noticed his discomfort, but he was glad for the change of subject. “I want that six you have,” he said. Their game continued, and McCree did indeed ask Hanzo his favorite vegetable, and they both stuck to similar innocuous things. Hanzo found himself both grateful for McCree’s sudden tact and resentful of his own gratitude.

He did find the opportunity to turn the question back on McCree: “Among our teammates, who would you Fuck, Marry, or Kill?”

McCree let out another whistle and laughed. “Mighty unprofessional of you, Agent.”

“ _Now_ you worry about unprofessional. I think you’re trying to dodge the question.”

McCree’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he visibly hesitated. He made a show of staring at his cards. “Definitely kill the Bastion unit. Fuck, uh, Morrison maybe. And I don’t believe in marriage—”

“That is _absolutely_ cheating,” Hanzo said.

“—so I’d marry Reinhardt and inherit the old man’s money when he kicks it.” His face had gone a fascinating shade of red that could have meant any number of things, none of which Hanzo cared to ask about. He doubted he would get a straight answer anyway.

Unsurprisingly, McCree won this game and nearly every other, and it did not occur to Hanzo until he was on his way to bed that he had somehow been coaxed, teased, and baited into wasting every opportunity to discuss Genji. He had also learned far less about McCree than the other way around, and where he had learned anything at all, he was left with only more questions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get briefly serious and then back to the goofin'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [mataglap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap) and [YourAverageJoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youraveragejoke) for the beta!

Hanzo woke in the middle of the night, the back of his throat burning. McCree’s cheap whiskey had to be the culprit. That was the risk he ran with alcohol these days: he could sleep like the dead or he could wake while it was still dark, head too full to fall asleep again.

He stared at the ceiling for a time, picking out shapes in the patternless pockmarks, at least until the urgent pressure in his bladder forced him out of bed. Once that was attended to, he snuck through the house in search of water. He stepped as lightly as he could, but no amount of stealth or training could outmatch the creaky old floorboards.

McCree jerked awake, eyes instantly alert and his hand shoving just out of sight. For a breathless moment McCree’s eyes pierced him across the dark room, and Hanzo’s entire body tensed. McCree would not be the first person Hanzo had met who might lash out before the fog of sleep cleared, and he was absolutely certain McCree had his gun with him. Then McCree dropped facedown again with a groan, and Hanzo watched his hand creep back to where he could see it, empty of any weapon.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” McCree said, words muffled into the pillow. “Scared the daylights outta me.”

“You almost shot me,” Hanzo said as coolly as he could. He could still hear his heart in his ears and feel his muscles struggling to relax again.

“No shit.” McCree looked up again, a hand ruffling his sleep tangled hair. “What are you doin’ creepin’ around in the middle of the night?”

“Getting water. I did not mean to wake you.”

“Not sure that worked out like you planned.”

It may have only been the adrenaline trying desperately for an outlet, but Hanzo suddenly laughed. “I suppose not. This house is unexpectedly loud.” He shifted his weight deliberately and the floor groaned again.

McCree let out a laugh of his own, a quiet one that started as if it only begrudgingly escaped before it grew louder and caused his whole body to shake. He shoved his face into his pillow again and gave a muffled shout. Hanzo might have thought he was losing his mind if he had not been intimately familiar himself with exactly that sort of runoff of wasted adrenaline.

In the aftermath of their shared, manic laughter, Hanzo was finally able to process what he had not before: McCree was not on the couch. He had pushed the coffee table aside and lined up the couch’s cushions on the floor for a makeshift bed, which explained a great deal about his ability to tolerate their arrangement.

He was cheating again, Hanzo thought. In the quiet darkness, after whatever had passed between them, the thought held no bite or bitterness to it, only amusement.

McCree shoved himself into a sitting position, yanking his blanket around his waist. Hanzo thought he looked strangely vulnerable like that, practically on the floor and ruffled from sleep. It was an odd juxtaposition to the dangerous glint in his eye mere moments before. “Well,” McCree said, loudly and suddenly. “Ain’t goin’ back to sleep any time soon. You wanna play more cards?”

“Not remotely.”

McCree barked out another laugh.

Finally, Hanzo moved and filled a chipped mug with water. After a moment’s thought he did the same for McCree. More alcohol might help him back to sleep, but he was not in the mood to risk the potential hangover. He brought the mug to McCree, who stared up at him in the blue glow of his tablet, looking almost confused as he took it.

“I am sorry for waking you, and for the manner in which I did,” Hanzo said quietly.

“It happens.” McCree’s voice was just as hushed. “Nothin’ to worry about.”

Feeling strangely and suddenly claustrophobic, Hanzo left him there without another word and went out to the back porch. Even at night, the air was hot, heavy and almost sticky with moisture. The night was filled with the sound of frogs and insects too, a thrum in the air that soothed then made him restless by turns.

He closed his eyes and could smell earth and grass and the tiny white flowers that grew along the western line of the fence. Halfway around the world, and it somehow reminded him of late summers at home.

He started a little at the sound of more floorboards creaking as McCree joined him. “I take it you’re not sleepin’ any time soon either?”

“No,” Hanzo answered. McCree lit a cigar and said nothing else, just sat next to him on the porch steps and stretched his long legs out in front of him. His red pajama pants were covered in cacti and tiny lassos. Hanzo snorted at the sight, though something about the late hour and the way he had startled McCree made him feel less inclined to comment on it. Instead he said, “It occurred to me that there are questions I did not get to ask during our games. Your cheating robbed me of answers.”

“Maybe you’re just bad at cards,” McCree teased. “How does somebody cheat at Go Fish?”

“You will have to tell me.”

McCree laughed, but it did not slip Hanzo’s notice that he had not directly confirmed or denied the accusation, this time or the time before. “I do feel a little bad about how easy it was though. Like I was takin’ advantage of someone feeble.” Hanzo chuckled, finding it difficult to take offense this time. “So I suppose I can let you have a freebie. Just one though.”

He had not really expected McCree to cave so easily, and it filled him with sudden nerves. Hanzo found himself hesitating. He could sense somehow that McCree knew it, that McCree was perhaps bracing for something. The longer the silence endured, the more obvious it became.

Finally, Hanzo steeled himself and asked, “What was he like back then? When you first met him?”

McCree sighed beside him. “You really gonna waste your freebie askin’ about the past?”

“I want to hear it from someone who was there, and you…” Hanzo was unsure how to finish that sentence. McCree was the only person in Overwatch who had yet told him the blunt truth — Hanzo _trusted him_ to do so — and Hanzo was discomfited to realize he had nearly admitted such a thing aloud.

“Fair enough,” McCree said after a moment, as if he knew he’d never hear the rest. “He was angry. Bitter. Mean as hell when he’d talk at all. Only really had patience for Angie. And Gabe, sometimes, because Gabe promised him that if he behaved and ran ops without issue, we’d eventually help him get his revenge.”

Hanzo swallowed, taken aback not by the description but by the calm, unflinching way McCree said it. “And you considered him a friend then?”

“Eventually, sure. He could be funny when he forgot to be so pissed off.” McCree’s mouth twitched there, not quite a smile. “Like some other folks I know.”

There was an intimacy to the statement that rubbed Hanzo very wrongly. They weren’t friends; McCree did not _know_ him. He reminded himself he had wanted McCree’s truth and that this was neither the time nor place to make a fuss over something so small. He focused instead on the conversation at hand. “Surely being funny was not enough for a friendship.”

“Nah, but he respected Angie and Gabe, and he mellowed out eventually. I’d met way meaner folks who didn’t have excuses half as good as his.” He scratched a hand through his beard, face unreadable. “Probably didn’t hurt I was a lot angrier then too.”

“How so?”

“I dunno, a little mad at the whole world sometimes. Maybe even bloodthirsty.”

“You had that in common then,” he suggested tentatively.

“Yeah.” McCree’s voice was quiet. “Mine came and went, and it wasn’t so intense by then, just enough to let me see it in others. His was constant and… all-consuming.” He let out a huff, as if trying to force the tension out. “He told me he hurt all over, all the time. And it wasn’t some one and done thing. It took work. Lotta trial and error to keep him on his feet and get him to a place where he wasn’t always hurting. He came in with more, ah, original parts than he had by the time he left.”

Hanzo forced himself not to look away or move a muscle, and he swallowed against the rising nausea. “I do not know how you — any of you who were there — did not kill me on sight,” he said roughly.

McCree’s mouth pulled into a humorless smile. “If you’d shown up ten years ago, I mighta. Guess we’re all lucky I’m more tired than angry these days.”

Something about it rang, not false exactly, but not entirely true either. Hanzo was not sure what to make of it in any case. He cleared his throat. “I suppose I am in your debt then.”

“For what? Bein’ his friend?” McCree snorted.

“Yes. And for being… _present_ , I suppose. For doing what I could not.” Hanzo finally looked away, refusing to let the grief swallow him. This was not about him in the end, but about Genji and McCree. It seemed somehow selfish to let his own emotions take over. “For helping him.”

McCree snorted again. “If there’s anybody you owe, it’s Angie. And I can tell you now she don’t want the burden of your debts any more than I do.”

“But—”

“If it’s some matter of honor or somethin’, you can pay me back with a bottle of bourbon. Angie’d take that too, but you’ll have to spend real money on her. She won’t drink anything less than top shelf.”

Hanzo wanted suddenly to be angry with him for making it all lighter than it ought to be, for denying him an opportunity to atone. At the same time he knew that this would also be selfish somehow. “That will not make us even,” he protested anyway.

McCree made a soft noise and Hanzo glanced up again to find him staring, brow drawn. He seemed concerned of all things. McCree worried his lip a moment before he asked, “What would I even get outta you bein’ in my debt? There’s nothin’ I need from you I can’t get some other way or that I’d want because you felt _obligated_. And how would you repay me anyway? You want me to put a price on years of friendship?”

Hanzo flushed angrily. “I am trying to make things right. Do whatever else you like, but do not mock me for that.”

“I’m not. I’m dead serious. There’s nothin’ you can say or do that could pay me back, because there’s nothin’ to pay back.” McCree shifted his weight then looked harder at Hanzo. Stubborn. It was better than the concerned look, at least, although his voice was far less harsh than it had a right to be. It was firm but not unkind. “You did a bad thing. You can’t take it back, and you can’t fix it by tryin’ to quantify what you owe everyone who was ever nice to him. You can’t fix it at all.” Hanzo shut his eyes and hissed in a breath through his teeth. It was true, but it was not something he’d expected someone else to say aloud, and certainly not with that _tone_ , as if McCree had it in him to care how Hanzo received his statement. “Best you can do is focus on doin’ right by him _now_. Puttin’ some good in the world _now_. The rest’ll fall into place or it won’t, but the trying’s the part that matters anyway.”

Hanzo breathed, shaky and hoarse, then he snatched one of McCree’s cigars away. McCree at least had the grace to be silent after all that.

Little McCree said had been new, aside from his take on the debts he was owed. And he hadn’t been cruel, no matter how it felt. McCree had only told him what he thought, as straightforwardly as possible. There was some kindness in that.

Really, it was no different from what Hanzo tried to tell himself on his better days, but hearing it from someone else seemed to clarify it, make it less abstract. It was difficult to hear but perhaps easier to accept in the end.

The night creatures sang wildly to fill their silence, and that became easier to bear too. Hanzo was tempted to ask McCree how he was meant to proceed, but his ego had taken enough of a beating for one evening. Besides, he knew the most important answer because Genji had already given it to him: do the work for Overwatch. Make the world a better place. For Genji and their relationship and maybe for his own sake.

Once the cigar had burned down, he glanced sideways at McCree and attempted a smile. “Where does an uncouth cowboy come by such wisdom?”

McCree sat up straighter, jerked out of some reverie, but he chuckled. “Is that a compliment hidin’ in there?” he asked with a sly smile of his own. Hanzo said nothing, only rolled his eyes. “That’s a long story, and it’s late enough. For now, let’s just say I got some experience tryin’ to make up for bad choices.”

“I expect to hear about these choices soon. Surely some of them are funny by now.”

McCree laughed quietly. “Maybe a few of ’em. But listen, we can’t both be exhausted tomorrow. I’m gonna get back to bed. You gonna be alright?”

Hanzo was taken aback by the question, although he realized that perhaps by now he should not have been. “Yes.” McCree patted his shoulder on his way to standing. “Wait,” he said before he could allow himself to overthink it. McCree lingered, fingers curled and too warm even through the fabric of Hanzo’s shirt. “I doubt I will sleep again tonight. You may take the bed if you need it.” McCree thanked him quietly, and then he was gone.

Hanzo did not get up immediately. Instead he sat on the dark porch with his eyes closed, listening to the chorus of crickets and frogs. A phantom warmth tingled where McCree’s palm had been.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in many, many years, Hanzo slept in. By the time he woke on the makeshift bed, the sunlight was streaming brightly through the windows and McCree was stomping about the kitchen. Hanzo glanced up to find McCree fully dressed, hair only slightly damp from his morning shower. He moved as though he thought he was being quiet, and Hanzo snorted at the sight.

McCree turned, a half smile on his face. “Finally back to the land of the living?” he asked.

Hanzo grunted his answer and rolled to shove his face into the pillow. There he rediscovered the scent that had lulled him back to sleep in the dark hours of the morning, and he inhaled instinctively before he caught himself and jerked upright into a sitting position.

McCree was staring now, plainly amused. “You always like this first thing after you wake up?”

“I was… disoriented. I do not often sleep so late. You should have woken me.”

“Sure, like you don’t also sleep with a weapon under your pillow. Ain’t riskin’ my good arm just to drag your ass outta bed.” McCree’s smirk melted into something a little softer. Uncomfortably understanding, even. “Besides, seemed like you mighta needed it.”

Hanzo made a gruff sound, but he had no easy way to brush off McCree’s kindness, even if he did not wish to embrace it. “Thank you,” he said, and he did his best to ignore that it sounded almost like a question.

“Made some coffee if you want it.” Hanzo nodded but he said nothing, unsure what to make of McCree like this. “I’d offer you tea but I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing you could make better than I can.” McCree still grinned as he poured. He even brought the mug to Hanzo, who stared mutely up at him. The coffee felt like a peace offering, the same as Hanzo’s offer of water the night before. Yet in the daylight and with their roles reversed, it was much harder to accept. McCree shifted his weight, as visibly uncomfortable as Hanzo felt. After too many long seconds, he spoke again. “I know I said last night that tryin’s the part that matters, but maybe I shoulda told you that, for whatever it’s worth, I can see you doin’ that. Tryin’.”

Hanzo nearly burned his fingers on the mug, staring as he was at McCree. “Thank you,” he said again, very slowly.

“Anyway, I need to eat something, but you’re the one who had a shit night, so you can pick. What do you wanna do ’bout breakfast?”

Hanzo huffed out a quiet laugh.

 

* * *

 

At the diner, it was once again Sharon who waited on them, this time with an indulgent smile for Hanzo’s order of waffles. “They’re darn good, aren’t they?”

McCree answered before Hanzo could. “He couldn’t stop talkin’ about ’em. I think he’s obsessed.”

“‘Obsessed’ is a strong word,” Hanzo protested. “I had a craving, and their proximity made it ridiculous to deny me what I wanted.”

“And I bet you get everything you want outta this one, don’t you?” Sharon jerked a thumb at McCree, but she was looking right at Hanzo, who was entirely unsure how to respond.

“Not everything,” McCree answered after a beat, once again quicker on his feet when it came to this sort of thing. “I say no sometimes.” He winked at Sharon. “Gotta keep him on his toes somehow.” She laughed at that then excused herself to go take another table’s order. McCree’s smile faded as he looked back at Hanzo. “Deer in the headlights ain’t your finest look, darlin’.”

He was tempted to be annoyed by it, but McCree’s tone was not particularly harsh. It wasn’t anything at all like what Hanzo tended to associate with chastisement. “Perhaps more coffee could wake me up,” he answered. Then he smirked and tacked on, “dearest.” McCree’s mouth ticked up into the mischievous smile from their card games the night before. Hanzo suspected the unspoken truce they had struck was nearing its end.

Hanzo added a coffee to his order, and when Sharon returned with it, she asked, “So what do you two do?”

After McCree had so cavalierly changed their roles to boyfriends, their cover stories were in need of some minor adjustments. Besides, Hanzo was still thinking about McCree’s comment about deer in headlights, and he was determined to show he could improvise just as easily. “I am a writer,” he said. McCree’s eyebrows shot up. “A novelist.”

“Ooh, anything I might have read?”

“If I told you, that would defeat the purpose of the pen name.” Hanzo took a page out of McCree’s book to wink at her.

“They’re very romantic, though,” McCree said with a grin.

“Any hints?” Sharon asked.

Hanzo could do nothing but watch as McCree’s grin evolved from slightly mischievous to outright shit-eating. McCree said, “I don’t know, it’s pretty niche. How much do you like cowboys?”

Hanzo’s body went instantly cold with the weight of his regret. “Yes,” he said slowly, doing his best to smile through his tensing jaw. “I write cowboy-themed romance novels.” He cut his eyes at McCree. “Although I am considering trying my hand at a murder mystery.”

“Now I do love those! And what about you?”

“I’m a journalist.” McCree’s answer came smoothly, as if he’d already had it prepared. “It’s how we met, actually. I interviewed him about his latest book, and I liked him so much I kept addin’ on questions just to keep him there long as I could.”

“It was the strangest interview I have ever been a part of. I cannot even remember half the questions, but I recall he teased me about my preference for dogs over cats. He is an unrepentant cat person. Absolutely loves them, don’t you, dumpling?”

Hanzo felt positively gleeful watching McCree struggle to swallow his coffee. “Yep, love those furry little bastards. So much.”

Hanzo spoke again before McCree could recapture control of the narrative. “I figured him out in the second hour, but by then we had already moved from lunch to coffee, and I enjoyed his company. So coffee turned into a walk in the park, and that turned into dinner.”

“That is lovely,” Sharon said. “So did you start dating right after?”

“What we did _right_ after is not a story suitable to tell in public,” Hanzo told her with a sly smile, and McCree coughed.

“Not sure our poor server needs that level of detail, honeybee.” Hanzo did his best not to let his face twist up in response to that particular nickname. The underlying message was clear: he was making the story too elaborate, for no purpose except to wind up McCree. Better to keep the lies simpler, easier for both of them to keep up with.

But Sharon looked exactly as delightedly scandalized as Hanzo had hoped for. “I’m full grown, I can handle it. But here I thought he was the handful and you were the polite one,” she told Hanzo.

He couldn’t resist one more: “I am sorry. I just can’t help telling everyone how lucky I am.”

“Aww, you both are! I’ve got a nose for tellin’ when two people are really made for each other,” Sharon said. “Saw that spark the second y’all walked through the door.”

Hanzo did not know how to reply to that; from the silence that followed, it seemed neither of them did. They were spared the need to recover the performance by the kitchen bell, which drew Sharon away from them. It seemed that while they had each adjusted to the other’s silly tactics, neither had accounted for Sharon’s enthusiasm. The only thing that made it at all tolerable was that McCree seemed just as flustered as Hanzo.

“Quite an imagination,” Hanzo said into his mug, and McCree grunted his agreement.

They were most of the way through a strained, silent meal when a white man in a leather vest entered the diner. Hanzo recognized him from their dinner restaurant the other night, and he braced himself, wondering if they would have to sit idly by and watch another extortion.

This time, however, the man only sat on one of the creaking vinyl bar stools. It seemed innocuous enough until he waved off the woman behind the bar and Sharon approached instead, body language shifting suddenly. She lingered to chat longer than usual, laughing and flushing and flirting so comfortably that Hanzo’s best guess was that this was something routine and established. “Aw, hell,” McCree muttered. Hanzo had to agree. “Looks like we’ll be back for more of your waffles, at least.”

 

* * *

 

They spent the rest of the morning and well into late afternoon attempting to make up for the previous day’s lost time, working their way through antique shops and secondhand stores, looking again for any place with enough storage space to potentially help the gang move their wares. While they found more than a few buildings that fit the bill, they found no evidence that any one of these might be used for a more clandestine purpose.

The restaurant at which they’d spotted the gang members previously was not open every weekday, including this one. It meant they could investigate the likely-empty building, but midday was a poor time for it. They returned to the house to rope Athena into remotely helping with possible security issues, then they were left to bide their time.

After dinner, they returned to the bar, and again they spotted members of their gang. It seemed McCree’s hunch that this was the “local waterin’ hole” could still bear out. Most of them were occupied at the billiards tables, so McCree suggested he and Hanzo try a game.

He had that glint in his eye again, the one he got when he challenged Hanzo. Whether to card games or to strange improvisations with their cover did not seem to matter. Hanzo narrowed his eyes but agreed to the game.

“I know the basics, but I have never played,” Hanzo said as he watched McCree rack the balls. It reminded Hanzo, amusingly, of watching him poke at eggs or rearrange tomatoes at the grocery store. He caught himself smiling and felt oddly foolish for it, but he managed to school his expression before McCree could look up again.

“It’s just gettin’ the right angle and good aim.”

“Geometry, then? I should be a natural.” McCree laughed and Hanzo felt more pleased with himself than he thought he should. He made a show of examining the stick in his hand, turning it this way and that.

“You know the rules, though?” McCree asked.

“Well enough. I will ask if I find anything confusing.”

McCree nodded then hunched over the table. The balls made a satisfying crack as he took the break shot. The dingy red solid dropped into a corner pocket. Hanzo dragged his eyes up to watch the bikers just beyond McCree’s bent back, only half listening as McCree chattered about the shot he was about to take. The green solid sank into another corner pocket, but McCree just missed the next. He shrugged good-naturedly and rounded the table toward Hanzo.

“Your turn, sweetheart,” McCree said, closer than before. His hand paused and hovered for the barest second before it settled in the small of Hanzo’s back. The pet name and the touch caught Hanzo’s attention: the woman from the other night was here again, back with her buddies in the gang, and she was looking their way. Hanzo gave her a tight smile as if he were any other person accidentally locking eyes with a stranger. Internally he cringed, reminded of his shameful reaction to her flirting with McCree. He hit the cue ball too gently, watching it barely jostle a little cluster of balls.

McCree only pocketed one this time, having gotten the cue ball stuck at a bad angle on his next turn. Hanzo paced around the table, trying to determine the best position to take his next shot and keep his attention on their targets at the same time. McCree pointed. “Think you can get your blue one in if you hit it right here,” he said helpfully.

Hanzo should have known better. He _did_ know better. He still asked, “How?”

An unreadable expression flashed quickly over McCree’s face before he approached again, hand on Hanzo’s hip. Hanzo leaned in for the shot and McCree leaned with him, too warm at his back. “Right here.” McCree reached over him to point at the striped blue ball, just to the left of its center. From the sound of his voice, it seemed he was smirking again. Hanzo did his best to dutifully ignore the combined effects of warm breath and McCree’s low voice right at his ear; he was so focused on it that he nearly missed the actual question: “They look like they’re plannin’ somethin’ to you?”

Hanzo glanced up from the table. Three of their assumed gang members stood huddled together, as though they wished not to be overheard even over the bar’s music and the other patrons’ talking. “Yes,” Hanzo answered, voice too tight to risk more.

His next shot hit the ball he was aiming for, but it hit the table’s edge just to the side of the pocket and shot back to the center.

They both straightened, and Hanzo turned too quickly, resulting in a brief, awkward dance where they both valiantly attempted to appear as though this sort of intimacy came naturally while they also put some distance between themselves. It would not do to drink too much on the job, but Hanzo downed as much of his bottle of cheap beer as he could stand while McCree planned out his next move.

McCree successfully pocketed two more balls, and Hanzo decided he was quite finished with this particular game. McCree congratulated him on his first successful shot. On the second, McCree’s mouth worked a little, and his eyes narrowed.

“Beginner’s luck,” Hanzo suggested, although he found it difficult to fully suppress his smirk. McCree’s eyes narrowed further until Hanzo wasn’t entirely convinced they were not closed.

“You are so full of shit,” McCree griped when Hanzo sank another two.

“You agreed I should be a natural.” His yellow dropped into the far side pocket, and they were back on an even footing.

McCree seemed too impressed now to keep up the glare. “Could make a lotta money like that. Or piss some folks off.” Hanzo snorted as he pocketed another ball then circled the table, assessing. “How many bar fights have you started by pullin’ this shit?”

“No more than I could win,” Hanzo said airily, and McCree laughed.

Hanzo swept the table quickly. McCree took his loss well enough; in the end he seemed more entertained than annoyed that Hanzo had tricked him, and Hanzo again found a strange, smug pleasure in that. It felt almost like the billiards game itself. Like he had gotten away with something he should not have.

 

* * *

 

Whatever their targets may have been discussing, they were unable to get close enough to eavesdrop. It seemed the gang did not intend to act on any of their plans this particular evening anyway. Hanzo and McCree left shortly before the bar closed.

After a quick stop at the safehouse to change clothes, they made their way to the restaurant. They parked several blocks away and finished the trek on foot. Armed with Athena’s blueprints and intel on the building’s pitiful security setup, it was easy enough to slip around the side without being seen.

The alley smelled like rotting, warmed over food, and Hanzo did his best to breathe through his mouth. McCree let out a quiet laugh at the sight of the old fashioned padlock on the door. Fishing out a set of lockpicks, he asked, “You want fast or subtle?”

“You cannot do both?”

“I’m a little outta practice, honestly.”

Hanzo sighed. “Let me, then.” He reached for the picks impatiently, and McCree relinquished them.

“Most places I’ve had to break into lately have been a little higher tech than this.” The door swung open, and McCree let out one of his quiet whistles. “Well done.” As soon as the door closed behind them, they were plunged into darkness lit only by the dim red glow of the exit sign. Hanzo was grateful that it surely hid the pleased flush in his cheeks. Another glow lit up from McCree’s handheld. “Cameras are taken care of.”

While they waited for their eyes to adjust, Hanzo indulged a nagging hunch and asked, “If I had answered ‘fast’, what was your plan?”

McCree chuckled quietly and lifted his metal hand. Only just visible in the glow from McCree’s handheld, the fingers curled slowly into a fist, and Hanzo felt an alarming bolt of heat shoot up his spine. “A little padlock’s got nothin’ on this thing.”

Hanzo got the picture. He grunted, grateful again for the darkness. He was less grateful for the intrusive, distracting voice in his head asking what _else_ McCree could do besides crush metal.

They made a quick sweep of the kitchen and dry storage and the small utility closet that housed the restaurant's cleaning supplies. There was nothing untoward stored there, but they had expected as much. There was nothing particularly revealing in the back office either, but Hanzo took the time to rifle through the desk and filing cabinets just in case. With McCree standing guard, he quickly copied over the bookkeeping records and security footage from the ancient computer.

“You said you were out of practice. Did you learn to pick locks in Blackwatch?” he asked mostly to pass the time.

“No, came by that a lot younger. Was somethin’ of a hellion in my teens.”

“Another thing you had in common with my brother.” It stung less to say it aloud this time.

“So I’ve heard.” McCree’s back was to Hanzo, but he sounded amused. “Pretty sure your family kept his rap sheet clean though. I had half a dozen B and Es on mine even before Deadlock.”

“Deadlock?” Hanzo asked as he plucked the tiny drive free. Then he set to carefully restoring everything to the way he had found it.

“My old gang. Old life, before Blackwatch.”

McCree had admitted the night before that he was not unfamiliar with making up for poor choices. This was surely what he had been alluding to. Hanzo had further questions, but they got lodged in his throat as he recalled the rest of their weighty conversation.

The final room on their tour was a storage room that ended in huge bay doors, leading out to a small drive behind several buildings on this block. It seemed strange that a restaurant would need such a space, but Athena’s intel suggested the old building had started its life as some other kind of business.

It was empty save for a few pallets and some chairs stacked in the corner, and the way their footsteps echoed in the quiet set Hanzo’s nerves on edge. The emptiness was itself suspicious. “There is not enough dust for this room to be unused.”

McCree was walking hunched low to the floor, shining his light along it. “Almost none at all. Like somebody swept up recently. Owners must be a bunch of neat freaks.” Hanzo could picture the sardonic twist to his smile even without looking at him.

Hanzo was more certain now that this restaurant was connected to the smuggling operation, and frustratingly left with only hunches for evidence. “Perhaps the records will prove enlightening,” he said with a sigh.

 

* * *

 

It was just after four in the morning when they arrived back at the house. With the late hour and his disturbed sleep the night before, and coming down from high alert after their excursion, Hanzo felt exhausted enough to sleep for a week. Despite that it had technically been his turn in the bed the night before, he did not protest when McCree dismissed him to the bedroom.

Well, not entirely. It still felt very unfair. “That couch is terrible. The floor is terrible. You should not have to…” Hanzo trailed off at the sight of McCree’s smirk, but he squared his shoulders and refused to be deterred. “We could… share.”

“Come up with that idea all on your own?” McCree’s infuriating smirk only grew.

Hanzo summoned his best withering stare, although even he could sense that it was not as potent as it ought to have been. He blamed it on his weariness. “Shut up and come to bed.”

McCree let out a surprised laugh, but he didn’t argue, only did the same as Hanzo: fumbled his way out of enough of his gear that he wouldn’t be horribly uncomfortable then climbed into bed. McCree had been right. It was more than large enough for both of them, although it was not so large that Hanzo could ignore the furnace-like heat at his back. It seemed to come off McCree in waves.

He thought he should be more distressed by the situation, or at least drum up some annoyance, but he was frankly too tired to care, going boneless nearly as soon as his head touched the pillow. “No _snuggling_ ,” he half-slurred, perhaps belatedly. McCree let out a soft snort, and it was the last thing Hanzo consciously took note of before he drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is indeed Only One Bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [mataglap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap) for betaing this chapter!

[Genji]: How is the mission going?  
[Genji]: I heard you failed ninja 101.

Hanzo squinted blearily at his phone. The first message had come around seven this morning and he’d slept right through the noise. The second arrived just after ten, its cheerful chime finally dragging him back to the waking world. He had awoken alone in the bed, far later than he ought to have and with his face mashed into McCree’s pillow for the second morning in a row.

[Hanzo]: The mission is going well enough. What does that mean??

He forced himself out of bed. From the noise of it, he knew McCree was already up and about. The state of the bedroom suggested McCree had also tidied their things while Hanzo slept. The previous night, Hanzo had left his gear on the floor, but now it all sat carefully arranged in the old rocking chair in direct line of sight from the bed. He was not sure whether to be bothered or touched that McCree appeared to have found some compromise between his desire to clean and leaving Hanzo’s possessions undisturbed.

From the humidity lingering in the bathroom and the wet towel hanging on the hook, it seemed McCree had already showered too. Hanzo was not sure what to make of the realization that he had slept through the kind of sounds that would have woken him even at the Watchpoint, which was the safest place he had slept in _years_.

His phone chimed again while he was brushing his teeth.

[Genji]: Jesse said you woke him up making too much noise. He also said you’re bad at cards.

Hanzo snorted at that.

[Hanzo]: I’m not. He cheats.

[Genji]: Probably. Are you getting along?

[Hanzo]: Of course.  
[Hanzo]: How have you been?

Hanzo flinched as soon as he sent it, and he reread it compulsively. It seemed too stiff. He wondered if Genji read it the same way. Perhaps he should have sent a quick anecdote or asked about something more specific. Genji did not immediately reply.

In the shower, Hanzo was confronted by the bottle of cheap two-in-one shampoo and conditioner that McCree used. He eyed it with some suspicion before he gave in to his curiosity and smelled it. The scent was soapy with a hint of some artificial fruit, underpinned by a cheap chemical aroma that made him wrinkle his nose. It did not smell much like the pillow had. Feeling deeply self-conscious even with no one to witness him, Hanzo set the bottle back down and resolved to forget the moment ever happened.

There was no message from Genji when he got out of the shower either, nor after he got dressed. He was not sure if he should send something else or not. He continued to contemplate it on his way into the kitchen, where he could have sworn he had heard McCree.

Hanzo had to round the counter to find him, and he stopped short, suddenly incapable of further movement. McCree was on his back, his head and wide shoulders squeezed into the cabinet under the sink, feet braced on the floor with his knees spread wide.

He thought he should probably alert McCree to his presence, but the words seemed to stick in his throat when he noticed the state of McCree’s shirt. It rode up, bunched just below his navel to reveal a small swath of skin and a stripe of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. Hanzo had thought they were obscene before, but he had not considered that matters could get much worse.

His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, and he tried to tear his eyes away only to get caught on the smallest detail: the denim was thinning high on the inside of one of McCree’s thighs. It was lighter there and no doubt softer from wear.

An uncomfortable guilt settled in alongside the more indecent feelings. This was almost invasive compared to his previous passing thoughts. It was one thing to be reminded occasionally that McCree was not unattractive; it was another to face it with such alarming specificity, to stare intently and imagine, if only briefly, what it might be like to press his mouth to the exposed skin or the faded denim between McCree’s thighs.

Naturally Genji chose this moment to respond to Hanzo’s message. The chime from the incoming text was damningly loud, and Hanzo nearly dropped the phone in his haste to silence it.

By the time McCree shimmied out from under the sink, Hanzo was leaning casually against the counter and staring quite seriously at his phone, doing his best to project that he had only just walked in and had certainly not been entertaining thoughts that resembled embarrassingly clichéd pornography.

“Mornin’, sunshine.” There was a dryness to it that suggested this particular pet name was more than a little ironic. Hanzo scowled at it, and McCree predictably snorted in response.

“What are you doing?”

“ _Well_.” McCree drew the word out like he was going to have to explain very slowly, and it set Hanzo’s teeth on edge. The accusatory way he was looking at Hanzo certainly did not help. “Garbage disposal was actin’ up, and when I went to look at it, I found one thing after another wrong.” When he seemed to figure out that Hanzo was not going to respond with more than a grunt of acknowledgment, McCree asked, “How’d you sleep?”

There was something strange about the way he looked at Hanzo. Hanzo thought about waking up with his face pressed into McCree’s pillow, and he felt the back of his neck prickle. It had been a very long time since he had slept in the same bed as another person; there was no way for him to know what he might get up to in his sleep, nor what conclusions McCree might have drawn. “Well enough.”

“Didn’t keep you up snorin’ or anything?”

“No,” Hanzo said slowly. “And you?”

McCree’s face was so carefully neutral that Hanzo found it deeply suspicious. “Just fine. Definitely better than the couch.” Then McCree began his exasperated lecture, which included providing Hanzo a list of foods he was not allowed to put down the garbage disposal. “How do you not know this?”

“I have only ever used one to dispose of...” Hanzo paused for a moment, then thought better of going into detail. “Not… food? And did not stick around for the aftermath.” McCree pulled a face that Hanzo could for once read with perfect clarity, because he knew the cocktail of feelings well: disgust and morbid curiosity and the temptation to laugh even though he probably should not. Hanzo quickly filled the awkward silence. “Besides, they are not so common elsewhere.”

“That so?”

“Growing up I wondered why so many Americans kept such dangerous things in their homes, because I associated them with horror movies. You know, a person goes to fix it and puts their hand in and then—” Hanzo trailed off, wondering if perhaps jokes about losing a hand might be off limits, but McCree barked out a loud, genuine laugh, and Hanzo forgot all about the strange way their conversation had started.

Two nights later, the exchange began to make more sense.

He awoke from a vague, swirling nightmare in which he was suffocating only to find some of it reflected in his reality. McCree was draped over him, a leg thrown across Hanzo’s hips and some unknowable fraction of his torso nearly crushing Hanzo beneath him. They might have been spooning, if Hanzo were not instead lying on his stomach; this had clearly not deterred McCree, or at least his subconscious, from trying his very best.

Hanzo was not at all sure what he should do. Waking McCree was an option, but then they might have to _discuss_ it. He tried moving subtly, but not only was he stuck in a manner that would require a very unsubtle force to unstick, the motion also made McCree tighten his hold. It seemed he had one of two choices: he could wake McCree, have a conversation he had no desire to have and over behavior McCree almost certainly could not change, or he could quietly die, smothered beneath a teammate he had begun to have increasingly distressing thoughts about. Both ideas carried their own acute humiliations, but at least the latter did not run the risk of revealing this distress. Hanzo shut his eyes and resigned himself to death by cuddling.

Hanzo did not, in fact, die.

He instead woke at a reasonable time of morning, closer to dawn than to noon this time, but he still woke alone, having migrated once again to McCree’s side of the bed. He went through his usual morning routine then joined McCree for breakfast, and they did not discuss it.

It was on his mind again that night, followed him and weighed down his limbs as he got ready for bed. Hanzo lay awake and listened to McCree’s breathing grow heavier, doing his best to think of nothing at all. McCree rolled a few times in his sleep but did no more.

Hanzo was preparing to write off the previous night as an anomaly when McCree’s shifting finally brought him closer. He pressed warm and heavy against Hanzo’s back, and Hanzo tensed from head to toe. A strategically placed elbow did nothing to deter him. Hanzo also tried inching away, but McCree burrowed closer shortly after, and there was only so far to go before he would reach the edge of the bed. Hanzo refused to be run out of bed entirely, and he eventually succumbed to his fate and slept.

In the morning, McCree was up first again, and Hanzo woke with his head on McCree’s pillow rather than his own. Hanzo wondered if McCree _knew_ , if he woke and had to pry himself carefully away, as embarrassed by it as Hanzo was, or if he thought he was getting away with it unnoticed. He wondered if he had misinterpreted McCree’s questioning before, if McCree rolled away in his sleep before he ever awoke and went about his day blissfully unaware. Hanzo thought about waking up on McCree’s pillow and wondered if McCree woke up and thought it was _Hanzo’s_ fault somehow.

Hanzo wondered these things, but he did not ask and McCree did not volunteer anything.

Hanzo considered asking Genji about it. Surely in Blackwatch they’d had to share tight spaces during missions. Eventually he decided, for reasons he did not care to examine too closely, that he probably did not want to know whether his brother had ever had this same problem.

They settled into a routine. Morning exercise, showers, breakfast either at the house or the diner, busy themselves with the investigation until they broke for lunch, go out again until dinner time, where they either cooked at the house or ate out again, most often at the restaurant where they had first found the too-clean storage area. At night they might go to the bar, break in somewhere to find nothing of value, or occasionally relax at the house before bed. In public they played their roles, flirted and smiled and called each other silly pet names; in private they were still friendly enough and grew increasingly familiar, but they kept space between themselves, which Hanzo told himself he preferred.

It was as if an unspoken barrier arose the moment they walked into the house, at least until it was time for bed. If Hanzo woke in the night or struggled to sleep, he would catch McCree cuddling, but in the mornings he invariably woke up alone, and more often than not on McCree’s side of the bed. They still did not talk about it.

 

* * *

 

“So we’re neck deep in enemies, and I’m low on bullets wonderin’ how the hell we’re s’posed to get outta this one alive, and your brother still takes the time to remind me I owe him a drink right before he lets loose that dragon.” McCree shook his head and laughed. “Didn’t even find out til later he doesn’t drink. Jackass just wanted to make sure I knew I was in his debt even before he saved my ass.”

Hanzo laughed too, although it was perhaps more forced. It was still uncomfortable to think about Genji lightly, but McCree’s stories helped with that in some ways.

They were back at the restaurant. Athena’s surveillance had alerted them that a truck large enough to move weapon crates had arrived earlier in the night, shortly after closing time. Certainly an odd time for more usual restaurant stock.

Something faint tickled at the edges of Hanzo’s senses. He put up a hand to silence McCree, who went suddenly very still. For a moment, Hanzo could not hear anything beyond their own breathing, but he caught it again this time: a voice speaking, and coming closer.

 _Move_ , Hanzo gestured.

McCree answered with a quick nod and flicked his light off, then he drew Hanzo through the closest door and shut it quietly as he could behind them. Before Hanzo turned off his own dim light, he caught enough of the outline of the space to register exactly where they were. Of all the doors they could have gone through, McCree had dragged him into the utility closet.

It was the absolute worst place McCree could have chosen, at least for the sake of Hanzo’s personal comfort. The space was only just large enough for the two of them to stand facing one another, and Hanzo was worried to move at all lest he bump into something and make noise or, worse, shorten the distance between them. McCree shifted to draw his gun, and Hanzo felt every incremental movement. He could hear McCree’s quiet breathing. He could _smell_ him, although the effect was blessedly diminished thanks to the far less appealing scent of industrial strength cleaning solutions.

It was exactly the sort of scenario that had an equal likelihood of featuring in either a very pleasant dream or a very stressful one.

He closed his eyes and tried to listen to the sounds in the hallway, but it made him more aware of how closely they stood. He had to breathe more shallowly to stop brushing their chests together.

The voices were moving closer. Multiple people speaking. Hanzo still could not make out the words. “I need to turn around,” Hanzo murmured as quietly as he could.

“Of course.” McCree’s voice was tense, and Hanzo felt him shift his weight to brace himself.

Hanzo turned as carefully as he could and leaned against the door, focusing on the muffled voices. They said nothing useful, only idle chatter, but they had stopped right outside the door. Hanzo caught his breath, and he both heard and felt McCree’s hitch behind him. The sound of another door opening; it had to have been the office across the hall. Hanzo heard the door close again and the voices grow very faint, and he huffed in frustration.

If anyone had been left to stand guard outside the office, they would undoubtedly be caught if they tried to leave. They could not risk it. They were stuck.

Resigned, he rested his forehead on the door and breathed shakily; it would have been a desperate laugh if he could risk the noise. Inside his head, he gave McCree a thorough and strongly-worded lecture for putting him in this position at all. Hanzo knew logically that the door _he_ would have chosen would have been the office, and that would have been far worse, but he was not in the mood to be charitable. Not trapped as he was, feeling every tiny breath and movement McCree made. It seemed like a punishment contrived purely to torture him.

He could turn around again, perhaps, but somehow he did not believe that would improve matters. At least this way he could smell bleach more than he could smell McCree. Staring flatly at the door also seemed a better choice than the alternative.

They stayed long enough that time became slippery and his mind began to wander. When they returned to the Watchpoint, he was going to take a brief leave. He would go into the city, and he would find a person with whom to rid himself of this tension. It had been some time since he had been with anyone at all, and much, much longer since he had spent more than an hour or so with an attractive stranger.

McCree was attractive, and certainly more than a stranger, and Hanzo had spent nearly every hour — waking _and_ sleeping — with him since they had arrived here. On top of his simple presence, they were friendly enough in private and flirted in public and even shared a bed. It seemed entirely natural, perhaps even inevitable given Hanzo’s tastes and circumstances, that he should find himself plagued by certain fantasies.

Ideally these would not be about his coworker nor his brother’s close friend, but they were entirely understandable feelings. Many people in his situation would have felt the same; there was nothing _noteworthy_ about them.

He repeated it all internally every time McCree subtly shifted his weight or breathed too suggestively — that it was possible to _breathe_ suggestively did seem unique to McCree, whose ability to find new and creative ways to frustrate Hanzo could hardly be surpassed — and he reminded himself that this torment would have to end eventually.

After an interminable length of time, during which Hanzo had begun to deliriously catalogue each way he could kill everyone in this building without blowing the mission, the door across the hall finally opened. McCree startled behind him and one thigh pressed far too close as a result, and Hanzo clenched his jaw and huffed out an irritable breath through his nose.

Nobody came to their door. They walked away none the wiser, footsteps thudding in the hallway. Hanzo listened until he thought it might actually be safe to leave. They got out without further incident, checked back in the huge storage room only to find nothing had changed. For all Hanzo’s suffering, they still came away empty-handed.

Despite his general exhaustion when they arrived back at the house, Hanzo could not help but lay awake, anticipating the moment when McCree would inevitably press against him. Every position he tried to find comfortable suggested some other way for McCree to cuddle him. If he rolled to one side, McCree would spoon him, and if he rolled to the other they might be face to face. On his stomach, he risked McCree crushing him again, and he had learned that when he lay on his back it was worst of all, because McCree might then nuzzle the side of Hanzo’s neck, beard and breath tickling the sensitive skin.

Eventually the decision was made for him, because McCree snuggled up close while Hanzo was facing away from him, curled warm around him with his knees budged up behind Hanzo’s. Hanzo’s insides writhed, but slowly the tension bled out of him and he surrendered once more to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo glared down at his hands as he rinsed them free of soap. Lately they itched for a weapon to hold, some _work_ to do that was not a series of frustrating dead ends. This was a gang with no name operating practically in the middle of nowhere. Compared to two former leaders of much higher-profile gangs and the combined intelligences he and McCree could bring to bear, this gang was _nothing_.

The mission should have been wrapped up by now. He should be back at the Watchpoint with his brother, not standing in the bathroom of a seedy old bar wondering if the grime of his surroundings made washing his hands a fruitless endeavor. Fate, it seemed, was conspiring against him at every turn.

McCree sat as Hanzo had left him, back to the bar with one long leg extended to the floor to counter the stool’s wobble. Unlike when Hanzo left him, he had company: the same blonde woman from before, standing too closely with a too-inviting smile and a too-presumptuous hand on McCree’s left arm. Hanzo felt his face go hot, embarrassed by his private turmoil over something he had no right at all to be upset about. He could easily damage the mission if he let it overtake him. Although even he could admit that it had taken far too long to consider strategy, the thought braced him enough to force him to focus. McCree’s body language seemed completely relaxed, but his smile strained at the edges, and Hanzo did not care to think on why that put him further at ease.

McCree’s face lit up at the sight of him, and the moment Hanzo was within reach, he pulled Hanzo in with a hand at his waist, practically dragged him until he was tucked against McCree’s other side. It was not entirely unusual for their recent performances, but it set Hanzo’s skin humming under McCree’s touch even with fabric to separate them.

“Thought you’d run off, sugarplum.” McCree’s voice was tighter than his smile and teasing words suggested.

Hanzo was not especially well-versed in reading signals in this kind of relationship, but these he could pick up clearly enough. He made himself smile and leaned his weight in clumsily as if he’d had far more to drink than he really had, one hand splayed on McCree’s chest. “I wouldn’t do that to you, lambchop.”

McCree didn’t laugh, but his grin and the quick hitch to his chest said he very much wanted to. “You remember Ms. Natalie? Met her a few nights back.”

“I do.” Hanzo glanced past McCree’s body at her and gave her a quick nod. It occurred to him that if McCree was so quick to lay it on thickly, it was not outside the scope of their act to let some of his possessiveness show. He had no claim whatsoever on McCree, but his character certainly did. It worked well enough; she had already taken her hand off McCree’s arm.

“She was just tellin’ me she runs the auto shop down the way.”

Hanzo said nothing, only looked at her until she spoke for herself. “That’s right. We can do a little of everything, but I specialize in bikes. Do some customization work, so sometimes I get omnics and other folks in for engravings and the like. Was asking where he got his done.”

“Fascinating,” Hanzo said dryly. McCree’s arm tightened in a way that Hanzo interpreted as _too far_ , so he gave her a bland smile. “How did you get into the business?”

She brightened and grew more animated the way people often did when asked to elaborate on a genuine interest, and Hanzo nearly felt bad for his offputting behavior, at least until he reminded himself that she was very likely part of the gang in question. Access to _omnics and other folks_ was particularly suspicious in a town where he had seen so few omnics at all. Considering his family’s later activities, it was not beyond reason to believe weapons smugglers might also dabble in omnic trafficking. There were those in this world who saw no difference between the two.

It was another lead to tease out at least, although he doubted even after this that they could simply pay her a personal call at her place of business. He let her talk wash over him while he considered the ways they could minorly sabotage the truck in order to bring it in without raising suspicions.

It seemed McCree’d had similar thoughts. “Good to meet a mechanic in the area. The truck’s been actin’ a little funny the past couple days. You think we could bring her in for a look?”

“As long as you don’t expect it to be free,” she teased. “I got a business to run.”

McCree grinned. “Thought didn’t even cross my mind. What kind of asshole’d take advantage of a new friend like that?”

She laughed and lingered to chat for a few moments more with a story of exactly the sort of people who thought her friendship meant she didn’t deserve to get paid, before she finally left them to themselves.

As she left, McCree’s face grew more serious, the gears visibly turning behind his eyes, but it was difficult to focus on much beyond the way McCree’s thumb rubbed distractedly along Hanzo’s side. 

 

* * *

 

They had to debate the best way to do it, and Hanzo had to work closely with Athena to puzzle it out, but in the end he managed to short out the truck’s interference suppressor then send a signal to disrupt the internal GPS. The vehicle was left technically workable, but it made the autopilot malfunction to a degree that two people driving at leisure around town could have plausibly noticed it.

He let McCree do the talking at the shop, though Hanzo was much better at being friendly toward Natalie than he had been previously. While they waited for her evaluation, they walked around the lot. There was a larger garage, closed off, that presumably existed to house longer term projects, but that could feasibly have stored all manner of illicit goods. Naturally they found no evidence in plain sight, but it was another place to investigate later.

Once they had checked out all they could, they returned to the front of the shop, where they were approached by an orange cat whose coat had seen better days. In the universal nature of cats, it beelined for McCree as if it knew of his distaste and had every intention to persuade him it could be quite charming. It wound insistently around his ankles. Hanzo smirked, expecting some entertainment from McCree’s irritation.

Instead McCree crouched down to greet it, offering his hand for it to investigate before he rubbed between its ears. Its purring was audible even to Hanzo, who found himself simultaneously charmed and distraught by the whole affair.

“I thought you did not like them.”

McCree smiled but did not even look up, focused instead on scratching under its chin. “I said they’re vain assholes and I prefer dogs. You’re the one who decided that meant I hate ’em.” Hanzo felt himself go warm all over and could not have explained why. Then McCree’s voice changed drastically, sweet and almost musical, as he addressed the cat itself. “And nobody could hate a cute face like this, could they?”

He watched in something akin to horror as McCree cooed and crooned at the animal. Hanzo knew he was flushing violently, overcome with embarrassment and things he refused to name, and he could do nothing but stare, unable to interrupt despite his discomfort.

Mercifully Natalie soon appeared to tell them what they already knew was wrong with the truck. They both acted duly surprised, and grateful to her for having located the problem. When it was time to pay, they bickered good-naturedly over whose card it should go on before Hanzo simply handed one to her.

“Well thank you, sweet pea.” McCree said it as if the outcome had not been predetermined, then he embellished the script: he snagged Hanzo by the waist again and pressed a kiss to his temple. Hanzo froze again.

At least he had the presence of mind to be grateful Natalie was already turning her back to them, because he knew his surprise had to be written all over his face.

“You’re welcome,” he grated out. He could be grateful, too, that circumstance limited his potential reactions. He was not sure what he might say or do without those constraints. Even _with_ those constraints, the moment Natalie disappeared into the office, he pulled away more forcefully than he meant to, and he stared directly ahead as if he were not keenly aware of McCree’s confusion.

The disoriented feeling followed him back to the house. McCree was watching him closely, certainly aware that Hanzo had reacted strangely, although he did not ask about it. He only stared as if Hanzo had become one of the many pieces of frustrating, barely useful evidence in their investigation.

Hanzo was plagued too with the phantom sensation of McCree’s lips, beard ticklish against his skin. Acting for the mission, they had done things far less tame, and Hanzo had instigated some of the worst. He had touched nearly every part of McCree a lover might, at least those that were acceptable in public, and McCree had done more or less the same. Yet while so many had made Hanzo squirm internally, none had discomfited him the way this tiny, casual display of affection had.

It had felt _intimate_ , not merely physical, and now the sense of it was burned into his skin.

It had crossed a line, and there was no way to voice how or why — where he could name those things at all — without making things far more complicated. The longer Hanzo lingered on the thoughts, the more difficult it became to abide sharing a room, much less a bed, with McCree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat thing is a metaphor probably.
> 
> Big thanks to YourAverageJoke for suggesting "lambchop" as a _deeply cursed_ endearment, and to [PersonalSpin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonalSpin/pseuds/PersonalSpin) who suggested _forever_ ago now that the "porny repair man fantasy" scenario was a trope that needed to happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hanzo pines and is also kind of a jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to bloomingcnidarians and to mataglap for the beta job!

Hanzo could feel it, the same as it had been for too many nights now: the heat from McCree’s body against his back, just shy of oppressive. While McCree slept on, body heavy and relaxed, Hanzo’s felt coiled tight in response to the dream that had woken him. McCree’s inability to keep his mouth off things provided more than enough fuel for Hanzo’s subconscious to wreak havoc. The dream’s finer details began to grow hazy, but its effects lingered nonetheless.

Hanzo made no noise, and he did not try to move. The only thing he could imagine more mortifying than his current predicament would be for McCree to wake before it went away. Before he could prevent it, his mind supplied one possible outcome of McCree catching him like this: a quick flash of McCree’s mouth sliding down Hanzo’s body. The thought was intrusive and so optimistic it bordered on delusional.

Heat curled viciously, low in his gut, and he forced his thoughts elsewhere, toward safer, simpler things. In his mind, he recited the menu from Sharon’s diner, attempting to calculate the cost of various combinations of dishes. It provided the necessary distraction, but it also brought forth memories of eating at the diner and, more to the point, the person with whom he ate.

At least he could blame the sex dreams on his lengthy dry spell and sharing close quarters with someone attractive. Those were merely a product of his subconscious, and any number of familiar faces would be interchangeable with McCree’s, with minimally different results.

These intrusions were something else, alarming in their specificity and their increasing presence in his waking hours. He could still feel McCree’s lips pressed against his temple, practically burning. He thought of the way McCree’s eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled, of one side of his mouth tilting higher than the other, and of the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, only visible if one was looking closely. He breathed as quietly and evenly as he could, picturing the way McCree’s hair curled around his ears when it was still damp from the shower, and how unreasonably soft it looked once it was dry.

At the start, the thoughts were not so bad. They left him feeling a little lighter, something warm unfurling in his chest. It was only when he entertained them too long that they began to strain. He was not sure he deserved so much as these secret thoughts; even that little made him feel the weight of his guilt. They were a distraction, surely, from all the things he was meant to focus on.

He drew in a shuddering breath, jaw too tight, and he felt foolish as well, nurturing this softness in himself, and for a man who had no reason to feel anything in return. McCree had said himself that Hanzo could offer nothing he either needed or wanted. And for all his small kindnesses and talk of redemption, it was hard to imagine that McCree was so forgiving he could overlook his loyalties to Genji.

Hanzo knew what this was. All their teasing and flirting in public, acting out a romance for an audience, had conjured much of this. It would be easier once they were back at the Watchpoint, where their surroundings might remind Hanzo of what was real and important.

Hanzo teetered between warm fondness and the bruised, aching reminder that this was all part of the job. An act in public, an agreement to try to be friendly in private. Nothing beyond that. He was foolish to hope for more and didn’t deserve it besides.

Hanzo swallowed, throat trying to clench up, and he repeated these facts to himself like a mantra. It ached, of course, but this sort of preemptive disappointment was far better than the consequences of false hope. Loneliness was difficult enough to bear without setting oneself up for inevitable failures.

Even he knew that he was wallowing, suspending himself in an indulgent sort of agony for no good reason. He focused on McCree’s breaths, slow as they were, and he tried to calm himself by matching his own to their rhythm.

McCree inevitably rolled and pressed himself against Hanzo, this time with an arm slung over Hanzo’s waist and his nose brushing against the nape of Hanzo’s neck. Hanzo went still again, caught between the competing desires to leave the bed entirely or to indulge himself, sink back against McCree and try to enjoy what he could of it.

McCree’s arm pulled him in tighter, broad chest against Hanzo’s back, and Hanzo forced himself to keep as silent as he could, breaths coming shaky and quiet and his heart pounding fiercely. He felt guilty for this part too. It was not something McCree would do while awake, and that made Hanzo feel as though he was taking advantage.

Some nights Hanzo still attempted to untangle himself, to put some semblance of space between them. Tonight, he did not have it in him. He cautiously, slowly settled one hand on McCree’s arm, securing him gently in place, and he let himself try to take some small comfort in what was otherwise an acute reminder of his loneliness.

When he woke he was alone, same as every other morning, and he had migrated to the other side of the bed, facedown on McCree’s pillow instead of his own. Unlike every other morning, the pressure between his ribs refused to fade.

 

* * *

 

The utter lack of forward momentum on the case combined with the previous night’s moping to leave Hanzo in a particularly foul mood. Despite his apparent cluelessness about Hanzo’s feelings otherwise, McCree seemed to notice his irritability. He suggested an unlikely place to investigate, which Hanzo suspected was mostly pretext to get them out of the house.

There was a park with a small amphitheater they had not bothered with before. The stage itself provided nothing of interest, nor did the playground or small concrete pavilion, but it was at least an opportunity to work outdoors. Hanzo found that he enjoyed the sunshine if not the muggy heat, and they both made excuses to linger in the park as long as possible. It did not entirely diminish the strain that Hanzo felt, but it did take some of the weight off. Once they ran out of plausible justifications, they headed back toward the truck, both dragging their heels.

Not far from the parking lot, Hanzo heard a quiet whimpering. A small boy sat on a park bench, rubbing fiercely at his wet cheeks. There were no other adults nearby. Hanzo would have liked for anyone else at all to resolve this, but it seemed unlikely. The child was alone.

He veered away from McCree and approached the boy slowly, almost as he would a wild animal. When the boy looked up, Hanzo tried to smile. That went well enough; his small face at least looked curious, although he continued to sniffle. Hanzo sat down on the bench beside him, still far enough away to respect his space.

Hanzo knew he did not have the sort of voice designed to be soothing, but he could at least keep it calm and quiet. “Are you lost?” he asked. The boy only stared uncertainly at him. “I see you do not easily talk to strangers. A wise choice. But if something is wrong, I would like to help you. Would that be alright?”

The child stared at him for a moment longer before he sniffed and quietly agreed. Communicating primarily in nods and head shakes, the boy, who said his name was Marcus, let him know he had been separated from his grandmother who was somewhere in the park. When Hanzo offered to help him look for her, Marcus reached for his hand.

Hanzo did his best not to flinch, but he knew better than to examine that too closely before the task was complete. He shoved the impulse down, let Marcus’ tiny fingers curl around his, and put one foot in front of the other. McCree trailed awkwardly behind them in uncharacteristic silence.

It was hardly the sort of mystery that could elude them for long. The grandmother was not especially far away, but she was as frazzled and panicked as Marcus himself. Hanzo endured her grateful, sudden hug, and he knelt down to the boy’s level to say goodbye.

In all it should have been perfectly mundane, if uniquely difficult for Hanzo. It was the sort of everyday heroics anyone at all could have engaged in. There was nothing noteworthy about it except that McCree stared at him in that way he had, the one that made Hanzo feel like McCree would put him under a microscope if he could.

“Didn’t know you were good with kids.”

McCree’s tone was impossible to read, but the back of Hanzo’s neck grew hot and he felt that treacherous pressure between his ribs again. Frustrated with himself and with McCree’s continued scrutiny, Hanzo said, “I was a little boy’s older brother long before I was any of the other things.”

From the way McCree’s mouth snapped closed, Hanzo considered the conversation successfully ended, and he started back toward the truck.

He should have known McCree could not leave well enough alone. He heard him picking up his pace, and Hanzo briefly considered walking faster, then realized exactly how ridiculous that would be. McCree would only speed up. McCree would chase him at a jog that they would both pretend was still only walking. A bubble of hysteria threatened him at the thought.

McCree caught up to him before he managed to set foot in the parking lot. “You alright?” McCree asked. It was probably sincere, and that somehow made Hanzo feel worse. He chose not to answer. McCree huffed. “Stupid question, probably.”

“I am fine.”

Hanzo stopped at the passenger door to the truck, staring directly at the handle. McCree was not moving to the driver’s side. Hanzo could _feel_ McCree’s eyes on him. “‘Fine’ is what you were fifteen minutes ago. Or maybe yesterday, ’cause you’ve been weird all morning. Either way, this isn’t fine.”

“It is not your business either.” Hanzo was not entirely sure why he felt so protective of this feeling. It was not as if his past was a secret to McCree. His regrets had always been on display between them. It was, in fact, his biggest obstacle now.

McCree moved closer, and Hanzo could feel his own shoulders hunching, tension climbing up his spine. “Listen,” McCree said softly. Cajoling, like Hanzo had spoken to the boy. “I know—”

“You do _not_ know.” Hanzo forced himself to turn, to look at him. “You have no idea.”

“Okay, maybe I don’t. Fair enough. It’s gotta be hard to—”

“Don’t tell me what I am feeling.”

“Well I tried askin’ first,” McCree shot back, more exasperated now. He visibly collected himself, a hand lifting as if it were going to rake through his hair or his beard, and Hanzo felt angry that he knew that behavior well enough to predict it. “Fine. You can tell me what to do here, because I sure as shit don’t know.”

“You can shut up and unlock the truck.”

McCree stared for a moment, and Hanzo only then realized how forcefully he had said it. This was not the same as the many times he’d told McCree to be quiet, as a joke or even out of his usual annoyance. McCree was genuinely angry this time. Hanzo had never seen it before, but it was unquestionably the case.

The truck unlocked with a quiet beep and McCree took deliberate, heavy steps to the driver’s side. It was all careful, measured, but Hanzo could sense the tension radiating from him. McCree was holding himself vigorously in check when Hanzo would have preferred he yelled.

Hanzo wanted to yell too, to lash out more, but it was all stuck in his throat. In fact he would have liked to find something to fight, to direct all his rage and frustration and grief toward the assignment, toward granting a violent end to violent people, but there was only McCree here. So he stood still instead, heart beating rapidly in his chest and his feet rooted to the ground.

McCree started the truck, and the sound rang through Hanzo’s already shot nerves. He sucked in a breath and opened the door, but he didn’t get inside. His eyes locked on the sight of McCree’s hand, the knuckles gone completely white from his grip on the steering wheel. All that restraint made Hanzo feel small, ashamed of his own feelings and his loss of control.

“I should—” he started, but the dryness in his throat made it difficult to speak. He cleared it and began again. “I think you should go back by yourself.” The pressure in his chest felt crushing now, but it seemed like the best option.

McCree’s jaw worked as though he were weighing his options; Hanzo had told him to be silent and was now telling him something he wanted to argue with. It seemed the words won out, as they always did. “Don’t think it’s a good idea to split up.”

“That is exactly what we should do.”

“Hanzo—”

“I want to be _alone_ ,” he snapped, and McCree let out a loud, frustrated breath through his nose. “I will see you at the house later.”

Hanzo expected McCree to argue further, perhaps to shut off the engine and turn this into some drawn out talk. Instead he nodded, just a single jerk of his head. Hanzo shut the door again and watched him drive off.

 

* * *

 

Being alone was more difficult than Hanzo thought it would be. All the places he could go remained too public for the impulses he wanted to indulge, and he had a cover to maintain. His initial instinct to take out his aggression by provoking a fight at the bar seemed far too conspicuous.

Which was how, several hours into his self-imposed isolation, he found himself seated at the diner, distractedly drowning his waffles in syrup.

“Far be it from me to tell a man how to take his waffles, but are you sure that’s not too much, hon?” Hanzo flushed and set the dispenser down before he looked up into Sharon’s kind face. “Where’s your other half tonight?”

“He is back at ho— at the house.” From the way her forehead wrinkled and her eyes went soft, he knew he had taken too long to answer.

Mercifully she left him to himself anyway. Here at the diner he could not go over mission notes or anything else resembling work, so he instead thumbed through the news on his phone, looking through his alerts for anything on Overwatch as he always did, though this time he stared without actually reading any of it.

It was nearing six o’clock here. Midnight in Gibraltar. He wondered if Genji would still be awake. He wondered if he would answer Hanzo’s texts even if he were. Hanzo typed out a message only to delete it. It seemed unfair to burden Genji with his emotional turmoil, and everything else he tried to write seemed overly formal.

He did not know how to start a casual conversation with his own brother.

He flipped the phone face down and went back to his food, although he no longer tasted it. Eating had become a purely mechanical act, something to do to avoid delving too deeply into his own mind.

He was drawn out of it by Sharon refilling his coffee. “Care to talk about it?” she asked.

“There is nothing to talk about.”

Sharon had the nerve to laugh at him. The diner was all but empty, still too early for those who would come in for dinner. Hanzo wondered if she was only bored. “I don’t think you’d take that tone with me if everything was just fine,” she teased. “You can still tell me no, but don’t insult me by lyin’.” There was something almost motherly about it, and Hanzo nearly laughed at the thought.

He ducked his head in quick deference to her, smiling despite himself. “I am sorry.”

“You two have a fight? I know the look of a man wondering if he’s gonna spend the night on the couch.”

Hanzo snorted and thought of the couch back at the safe house and all the pain it had caused. “I doubt he would be so cruel.” He cleared his throat. “But I was very rude to him. I am not sure he’ll forgive me very easily.”

“Is it your first fight, or one of many?”

Hanzo poked at the remains of his waffle while he thought about it. “First? I have been rude before, but I don’t think he has been angry about it until now.”

“It’ll pass then. I’d bet you’re forgiven already and he’s just waitin’ for the apology. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

Part of him wanted very badly to believe her, but Sharon had been the primary audience for the majority of their performances. Hanzo laughed again and did his best not to let his bitter skepticism color it.

She clearly heard some of it, though. “Reminds me of my husband, rest his soul. He passed away a few years back. But back then, even when we were mad at each other, I always felt like the only person in the room. _That’s_  how he looks at you. Don’t waste it feelin’ sorry for yourself.”

Hanzo stared at the table, biting back the things he could not tell her, before he took the opportunity to distract her by asking for stories about her late husband instead.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo did not have the heart to go inside yet, so he let himself in through the back gate, nearly fumbling his handheld in his efforts to alert Athena’s security system that it was him and not an intruder. He sat on the porch again and drank the surprisingly passable sake he’d bought on his way back to the house.

Sharon’s words still rang in his head. Her thoughts and advice were only the result of a convincing act, but it was tempting to indulge the fantasy that what she saw might be real, however distorted by their lies. If he concentrated, he could picture it from her point of view, could see McCree’s mischievous smile and easy jokes as flirtation, could see his scrutiny not as suspicion or piecing together intel but as a genuine interest in the things Hanzo said and did.

It was easy to understand how she had arrived at her conclusions, given only partial and misleading information. The thought made his chest compress again, and he set to drinking in earnest.

It came as no surprise when he heard heavy footsteps behind him and the now familiar creaking of the house. Hanzo was well on his way to numb by then, but McCree wordlessly settling onto the porch step beside him grounded him a bit. He listened to McCree’s lighter flick open, the sound of his metal thumb striking it, the faint crackle as the cigar paper began to burn. It all seemed to move in slow motion, but McCree said nothing at all.

He wondered if McCree’s silence was uncertainty over what to say, or his own sort of brooding, or if he was trying to honor Hanzo’s earlier demand. All these possibilities felt unpleasant, but it was the last that made Hanzo’s stomach turn. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. The words came more easily than he expected. “I should not have spoken to you that way.”

McCree let out a long sigh. “Yeah. I shouldn’t have pushed though. You were pretty clear you didn’t feel like talkin’.” Hanzo thought again about Sharon’s observation that he might already have been forgiven, and he shifted his weight, uncertain from McCree’s reaction whether that was true. There was another long, uncomfortable silence before McCree asked, “Feel like talkin’ now?”

“Not especially.”

“Dare you to do it anyway.”

Hanzo let out a dry laugh, took a healthy swig of his sake, then held the bottle out to McCree. “It has been a very long time since I spent so much time alone with one person. I fear it has made me… disagreeable.”

“What, you got cabin fever again?” McCree snorted. “Or just sick of me?”

“It is not you,” he said too slowly, and perhaps unconvincingly, given the grunt he received in return. Hanzo was grateful he had let the sake go; he could feel words floating up, the sort he might say if he indulged too much. “There is nothing— you haven’t done anything _wrong_. Perhaps cabin fever is correct.”

McCree made a skeptical sound. “How long’s it been then?”

Hanzo hummed thoughtfully to himself. “I— never?”

“It’s been ‘never’ long.”

“I have memories of being cooped up with Genji, as a child. Long business trips with my father sometimes. But not with a… coworker?” Hanzo felt grateful for the dim light from the kitchen window, hoping that McCree could not see his flush. Whether he saw it or not, McCree snorted again, more obviously amused this time. “Nobody outside the family.”

McCree was quiet for a moment, and Hanzo could practically hear him turning it over in his mind. “So you’ve never been, ah, significantly alone with another person. Explains a lot.”

“That is what I—” Hanzo paused, head snapping to glare at McCree, who was smirking. “No, _that_ is _not_ what I said.”

“I have no idea what that means.” McCree’s widening, mischievous grin gave him away.

“You were implying I have never— Never mind.” McCree only laughed. “You are impossible.” He waited for McCree’s laughter to subside. “I meant I have never had a… relationship like the one we are pretending to have.” Hanzo shifted his weight uncomfortably. That was more than he had intended to say, or at least phrased wrongly. Only in hindsight did it occur to him he could have come at this from some other angle.

“How?” McCree cleared his throat like he had noticed Hanzo stiffen. “I’m not teasin’ you this time. I mean it. Not even the age thing. You grew up rich as hell, and that’d be enough for most folks, but you’re also—” McCree flailed a hand at him and let out a loud huff. “I’ve seen you preening, you know what you look like.” He sounded almost sullen about it.

Hanzo laughed dryly, then he reached for the sake again. “Yes, we were very wealthy. I am not sure I ever met anyone uninterested in my wealth, influence, or the dragons back then. And if I did... My family were not so accepting. I couldn’t date just anyone. So either my family did not approve, and it had to be illicit, or they did approve, and thus my partner was untrustworthy. Neither scenario was ideal for something lasting.” He took a long drink. “And after… _after_ , I was on the move. And unsure I wished to lie about my past, or who I was, and equally unsure anyone could care for a man who had done the things I had. Unsure I wanted the person who could forgive that.”

“Genji forgave it.”

“He is trying. And I didn’t know about that until recently, did I?”

McCree fell silent, and this time it did not feel quite so heavy. It felt instead like he was giving Hanzo room to breathe. It seemed it was beyond him to maintain it for long though. McCree laughed suddenly then asked, “Anybody ever tell you you’re a maudlin drunk?” Hanzo, perversely, found himself laughing too. “Not sure I have the stomach for all your broodin’.”

Hanzo snorted. “As if you do not _brood_.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. I have seen it. You especially like to do it while you tend to your equipment. You take apart your gun and you—” Hanzo did his best to mimic McCree’s face here, squaring his jaw and drawing down his brow, narrowing his eyes until he could barely see.

“You look like a dumbass.”

“Well, now you know what I see.”

McCree’s laugh was bigger this time, bright and surprised. “Maybe I’m just concentrating.”

“Yes, while scowling. Perhaps ruminating on unpleasant things. That—” Hanzo punctuated this by poking McCree’s knee “—is brooding.” They sat again in quiet, both amused with themselves and each other. Hanzo could feel it bubbling inside him, making him lightheaded like the alcohol. After some time and several more sips of sake, he poked McCree’s leg again. “I would pay a not-insubstantial amount of my former wealth to know what it is you brood about.”

“That so?”

“Yes, you are very mysterious. Surprisingly so. Much more than you have any right to be.”

While Hanzo panicked quietly inside, overcome quite suddenly by his worry that the statement had somehow constituted flirting or at the very least revealed far too much interest, McCree only swiped the bottle away from him again. “I _think_ _very hard_ about a lotta things. Sometimes those things aren’t so nice, I guess.”

“Such as?”

“Such as… not a lot of people ask me these things.”

Hanzo felt the anxiety claw at his throat for a moment, before he realized perhaps McCree had meant it differently. “Is that an accusation of some kind?”

“What? No. I mean you askin’ about me feels weird because other people don’t ask, and maybe that’s one of the things I think about sometimes.”

“Brood about.”

“I— yes. Fine. I _brood_ sometimes because so few people seem to think it’s worth askin’ me what I’m brooding about. Like maybe they’re just not so interested.”

Hanzo was not sure what to say right away. “I am sure once you reveal it, I’ll find you very boring,” Hanzo teased, and it seemed to have been the right choice.

“Maybe so.” McCree grinned against the lip of the bottle before he took another drink. “But the other thing is...” He sounded more serious now. “Maybe I haven’t had a lot of relationships either.” Hanzo felt that teasing this time might be misplaced, so he kept his mouth closed, and he waited. “Was a real shit as a kid, and in Blackwatch— I don’t know, it wasn’t always a bad gig, but you can’t be real open and honest with anybody. There’s only so far you can go with ‘sorry babe, it’s classified.’ The secrets always killed it in the end. And after, well. Seems unfair to ask somebody to lie for me.”

“Lying to the outside world is surely very different from lying to your partner.”

“You’re right, but he’d still be riskin’ prison or worse by covering my ass. I could still lie, I guess, but I’ve already been down that road, and I doubt the feds or Talon or anyone else’ll believe I never told him anyway. The danger means he couldn’t be a civilian either, and you know how mercs are. They’re more likely to turn me in than date me.” McCree’s chuckle was a little strained. “Besides, I never stayed in one place long. All of that’s askin’ somebody to take a lotta risk without much reward.”

They drank for a time, and when McCree went to smoke again, he offered Hanzo one. Hanzo could feel McCree’s eyes on him, as though he were searching for something in Hanzo’s face, perhaps some judgment over all he had said. Whatever he found, McCree finally asked, “You bored yet?”

“No. I was only wondering if,” Hanzo cleared his throat, “if people don’t ask because you don’t invite them to. I doubt I would have seen if we were not here, and it took all of _this_ —” Hanzo shook the sake bottle “—to even consider it.”

“Yeah, but you’re a selfish bastard.”

Hanzo thought perhaps he should be offended, but McCree’s tone held no bite to it. Only teasing again. Besides, he was not wrong. “You seem very capable. Of handling yourself. On your own. And like you do not _want_ to say these things, and like you would if you cared to.”

“Oh.”

“ _And_ I think you have decided for this hypothetical man that you know better than he does what he can endure, and you have chosen to foreclose the opportunity before it ever presents itself.”

“There’s this saying about pots and kettles...”

“Yes, well, you are a better person than I am.” Hanzo’s throat clenched around the words as if he could take them back now.

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Please do tell me what you have done that’s worse. I will wait.” McCree said nothing, and Hanzo snorted again. “See? You may disagree, but you will simply have to live with the fact that I think you are a good man.”

McCree laughed and leaned in close. Metal fingers curled around Hanzo’s wrist, and Hanzo’s breath stuttered. “Thank you,” McCree said quietly. The timbre of his voice did little to ease Hanzo’s struggles. “If you’d asked me before this mission, I would’ve sworn you’d be a grumpy, silent drunk. You’re so damn chatty though.” His mouth tilted in a wry smile, and if Hanzo was in a mood to torture himself again, he might have even called it fond. McCree pried the sake bottle out of his hand. “Think you’ve had enough.”

Considering that Hanzo had watched his mouth shape every word and imagined McCree stared at his lips in turn, McCree was almost certainly right. Hanzo nodded and did not risk saying anything.

“Get to bed,” McCree said.

“And what will you do?”

“Brood, probably. Got a head full of stupid shit now.” McCree sighed, then gave him another of those wry, sideways smiles. “I’ll be fine. Could use a minute alone. Go on.”

Hanzo left him to himself and got ready for bed. Even though he lay still, the room tilted gently around him. His head swam again with the memory of McCree’s smile and the tiny voice inside that said _he_ was more than capable of protecting himself and assessing the risks and lying to whatever authorities came asking, that he was unbothered by someone else’s shadowy past. Despite his many failings, Hanzo had none of those that McCree imagined could prevent a relationship. And McCree had indicated _some_ base attraction, although he had been equally correct to assume Hanzo received that sort of attention often enough that he had not been terribly concerned about that, at least.

Still, there was something pleasant about knowing McCree in particular had noticed, to the extent that he had grown too flustered to pay a proper compliment.

Although perhaps McCree’s problem was that he did not wish to pay Hanzo that sort of compliment at all. All his misgivings about false hope came crashing back, and it built an aching pressure inside him. It made McCree’s disinterest rather more specific, knowing that Hanzo could bypass a number of McCree’s personal obstacles and yet fall short.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, nothing seemed to have changed at first. Hanzo still woke alone on the wrong side of the bed. They each ran through their morning exercises, if perhaps the abridged versions after all the alcohol, and they still took turns showering and dressing.

McCree still stood in the kitchen, damp hair curling just under his ears, and asked whether Hanzo would prefer the diner or breakfast at the house. The diner, of course, was out of the question. Hanzo did not care to risk Sharon working the morning shift too and saying something indiscreet.

McCree still made coffee for them both and teased Hanzo about his inexperience with cooking, and Hanzo tried to inconspicuously pick out the freckles across his nose in the bright kitchen. Hanzo still skimmed the news and ate huevos rancheros.

Hanzo still gave another of his qualified compliments for the food, indicated that he liked it about half as much as he did. This time, McCree’s smile was a small thing, but he still seemed pleased in a way that felt disproportionate to the small praise. It was soft, and warm, and enough to cause Hanzo to regret that he’d not done more to bring it out more often.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet an old acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to mataglap and YourAverageJoke for the beta job, which I then edited on top of without further feedback. Any mistakes are all mine in general, but especially in this chapter.

“Get your own.” McCree swatted at him, but it was not hard enough to knock free the strip of bacon Hanzo had stolen.

“She gave you extra. You can spare one.” Hanzo punctuated this by taking a bite of his prize. It was truthfully too salty to enjoy more than one piece anyway, but the crunch was satisfying; he had taken care to identify the crispiest before he made his move.

McCree shook his head, but it did nothing to hide his smile. “You’re just bitter ’cause Ms. Sharon likes me better than you.”

“Doubtful. She said I was polite.”

“Hate to break it to you, pumpkin, but that’s one of those things people say when they can’t come up with somethin’ better.” McCree grinned at him, a triumphant flash of his teeth.

“How interesting. I am not sure how I survived so long without your insights, turtledove.”

It was growing more difficult to generate ridiculous pet names. He had previously been unaware that so many could exist in English, and they seemed to come much more naturally to McCree, but Hanzo had grown used to accepting some amount of questionable taste. Besides, the effort required to come up with something unique each time was well worth it when McCree laughed the way he did at this one.

“Well, here’s another one, honey bun: most times when people say ‘how interesting,’ they’re usually either humorin’ you or being a dick. Nobody who’s actually interested uses the word ‘interesting’.”

“How interesting,” Hanzo repeated dryly.

The crow’s feet around McCree’s eyes deepened with his chuckle, and Hanzo’s heart seized in his chest. For a moment he wondered if he had stopped breathing. It wasn’t the first time it happened like this. They’d be having an otherwise amusing conversation, one in which Hanzo might forget about everything but the two of them sharing this moment. Then without any warning, this feeling would hit him like a bludgeon, push the air out of his lungs and leave him shaky and bruised.

Fortunately, McCree had gone back to his breakfast and did not seem to have noticed anything. While they ate, Hanzo vacillated between enjoying the moment — enjoying that his company and his words could at least put McCree at ease — and believing he was only making things worse for himself in the long run. Although he was quite used to tormenting himself, he had never before managed to do so with visions of happiness.

He told himself again that things would be better once the mission was over. They could return to normal, McCree’s attention could once again be divided among all their colleagues instead of singularly focused, and Hanzo could get back to repairing things with Genji. In person, they would have fewer lengthy stretches without contact, and he could fill the interim with things _other_ than McCree. Maybe he would find a hobby.

This feeling would fade. Believing this was all that kept him sane in his weakest moments.

Warm, calloused fingertips brushed the back of his hand. “You alright?” With McCree’s eyes on him, catching the bright light from the window, he could not find a suitable answer. He could only withdraw his hand as carefully as he could. No reason to let McCree see him rattled too. “You were starin’ off into space.”

He was spared from having to formulate some response by the entry of two police officers. McCree’s shoulders squared off, a barely perceptible sign of nerves, but the officers didn’t even bother to look around. They went straight to the bar seating, backs to the tables.

“I am quite full,” Hanzo announced. “If you don’t mind, we could get the rest of yours to go.”

McCree flashed him a look that Hanzo chose to read as grateful. Sharon, however, was too preoccupied with the officers to bring them their check. It seemed she was not simply taking their orders.

“Think I’d rather finish up here, if that’s alright with you, puddin’.”

Hanzo nodded, incredulously mouthing _pudding_ at McCree, who managed to grin at him even through his obvious wariness.

The bell on the diner’s door jingled again, this time to admit Natalie. She was in less leather this time, dressed much more simply and more appropriately for the weather. The humid air that swirled in with her made Hanzo nearly envy her for her tiny shorts. She made a determined beeline for their table.

“Fancy meetin’ you here,” McCree said.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you two.” She was looking only at McCree, and she smiled, sharper-edged than Hanzo had ever seen it. “You dropped something when you came by the garage the other day.”

The back of Hanzo’s neck prickled, but McCree’s face remained placid. “And you’re just carryin’ it around in case you saw us? How thoughtful.”

“Had it in the car. I was hopin’ to see y’all out at the bar again, but this’ll do, I suppose.” She pulled something flat from her pocket, and she slid it across the table. “I’m gonna go say hi to my other friends now, but I hope to see you again real soon.”

They watched her walk to the officers. She greeted one with a hand on his back, and she glanced back to wink at McCree. He’d already flattened his hand over the object, but he lifted it then. It was thick paper, folded in half, and McCree frowned deeply at whatever he found inside.

 

* * *

 

McCree was silent on the short trip back to the house, but he stomped out to the porch and lit a cigar without hesitation. Wordlessly, he handed Hanzo the slip of paper.

It was a small printout of McCree’s wanted poster. Tiny, sloped handwriting in the bottom corner said, _Just want to chat. Garage, 12pm_.

That was less than two hours away.

“‘Just want to chat’,” Hanzo muttered. “Do we believe this?”

McCree stared out at the fence. “Gotta consider it, at least. Cops were right there. And if she wanted the bounty there’d be smarter ways to do it than by givin’ us a chance to skip town.”

It was not far from Hanzo’s own line of thinking. Whatever Natalie wanted, it would be beyond arrogant for her to warn them before an attack. He knew McCree’s public reputation and could guess at what it was among the criminal type. A sixty million dollar bounty surely signaled that McCree was dangerous. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would want every advantage available, and for all that his perception might have been warped by humiliating moments of possessiveness, she had never struck him as either cocky or stupid. The possibility that she was a threat to their immediate physical safety seemed slim.

“We go armed, but not so well as to draw attention yet. Only as a contingency,” Hanzo suggested.

“How would you feel about a wire instead? I go in alone—”

“Absolutely not.” It was vehement enough that McCree whipped his head to stare at him, and Hanzo felt his cheeks and even his neck get hot. “I promised my brother I would not let you get hurt.” It was a weak excuse, but his voice was steady enough. “Besides, she is used to seeing us as a pair and surely understands that she has issued a threat. It will be strange for you to show up alone. She may even suspect the wire. A pointless risk for minimal payoff.” There. That was less flimsy, although it was hardly bulletproof reasoning.

McCree could argue, if he wanted. Already, Hanzo was shoring up counterarguments to the counterarguments, just in case. But McCree remained silent, and he made no effort to hide that he was studying Hanzo’s face, though his own expression was far too confusing to readily interpret. Fighting the urge to squirm, Hanzo only stared back as impassively as he was able.

“Okay,” McCree said, voice hushed. Hanzo had not realized how anxious he was until he felt his shoulders sag in relief. He had not expected such an easy concession, nor did he expect the way McCree’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “We’ll do it your way.”

Hanzo nodded, and they got to work making their plans. Whatever had passed between them before was set aside in favor of this task, both more pressing and more familiar. And if McCree watched him more closely than he was entirely comfortable with, it was easy to write off as concentration on their planning.

 

* * *

 

The garage appeared to have typical business for the day. It was a good sign; surely there could be no real danger if there were paying customers present too. At the very least, it vindicated the choice to keep their weapons minimal and concealed, although Hanzo had a particular hatred for the thin armor just under his shirt, especially rubbing against his skin in this damp heat.

Natalie was waiting by the door, smoking a cigarette and looking more troubled than before. He wondered if it had sunk in that she had threatened a man with one of the highest bounties in the States, earned in no small part through violence. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said with a nervous smile. “Got some paperwork in the back office, if you don’t mind comin’ with.”

She put out her cigarette and they followed her through the shop and back, eyeing one another and their surroundings carefully. They had been here before, of course, once officially and once to investigate after hours, but never with so many people around. It was difficult to tell who might be in Natalie’s gang and who might only be an employee.

Inside the office was a ratty old couch, one that bore an alarming resemblance to the one in the safehouse. He tried not to be offended that she expected them to sit on it. The sound of the door locking — first with a manual deadbolt, then with a hydraulic hiss — made Hanzo’s pulse kick up with anticipation.

“Surprised you brought the boyfriend along,” she said.

McCree glanced at him with an expression that he read as a smug _I told you so._ Aloud, McCree said, “He can hear whatever you’ve got to say. Might wanna make it quick though. I’m not the only one with an itchy trigger finger.”

A flicker of fear passed over her features before she quashed it, drew herself up to her full, if diminutive, height. “You’re not actually here to talk to _me_.”

McCree sank further into the couch cushions, arms spread across the back like he was as relaxed as could be. Hanzo didn’t have to look at him to know he had made sure his gun was visible to her; the way she blanched made it obvious enough. Hanzo settled in too, arms folded across his chest.

They had speculated that Natalie might be working with or for someone else, and the speed with which her swagger disappeared said a great deal about how experienced she was at going toe to toe with anyone truly formidable. Her previous boldness continued to deflate as she seemed to absorb that she had locked herself in a room with one very dangerous man and one unknown who no doubt appeared quite capable. Her fingers fumbled a little as she set up a holo screen on the edge of the desk. It remained blank for a moment as she placed a call, then lit up brightly when someone answered.

McCree tensed immediately, practically a full body twitch. Hanzo had never seen this woman in his life, but the way her vivid red lips pulled sideways into a smile felt oddly familiar. Then she looked at Hanzo, narrowed her eyes, and made a disgusted sound.

“Nat, next time I ask you to describe somebody, I’m gonna need better details.” Her accent was nearly the same as McCree’s and, impossible as it seemed, it was somehow thicker. She also sounded like a woman quite accustomed to getting her way. “There is a _world_ of difference between ‘buff Asian guy with tattoos’” — her red nails clawed at the air as she mimed the quotation marks — “and actual yakuza.” She sighed and rolled her eyes, while Natalie looked at Hanzo as if she deeply regretted every choice that had led her to this moment. “Ruined my damn introduction. McCree, what are you doin’ out in Bumfuck, Tennessee?”

“I _was_ enjoying a nice vacation. You find your bike where I left it?” Close as they were sitting, Hanzo could feel him relax again, although it felt almost deliberate, like he had to concentrate on each muscle in turn to make it happen.

Her eyes narrowed. “I did. Every piece of it,” she said slowly, and McCree chuckled, the sound low and arrogant. It rubbed Hanzo the wrong way on more than a few levels, and the face she pulled said it got under her skin too. “That’s not what we’re discussin’ today. I asked you what you’re doin’ out there.”

“Now, Lizzie, you know if you wanna know somethin’, you gotta ask me nicer than that.” While McCree had on more than one occasion condescended to him, Hanzo had never quite heard this tone out of him. He had to be doing it on purpose, pushing whatever buttons he could; it would be unbearable to think otherwise.

Judging by her answering sneer, it worked. “Don’t be such a pain. I’m tryin’ to be civil here.”

“You ain’t been civil a day in your life.”

The sound she made in the back of her throat was not a growl, really, but neither was it entirely human. She seemed to think better of continuing to address McCree.

She looked instead at Hanzo, then visibly schooled her face into something much calmer. “The name’s Ashe, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Her tone was nothing at all like it had been with McCree, was in fact bordering on a professional friendliness. Hanzo was not sure how to respond, but she spared him from having to decide whether to use his real name or a false one. “I do hope you’ll forgive the circumstances. I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Shimada, and if you don’t mind my sayin’, pictures did _not_ do you justice.” Her eyes gave him a quick sweep, unabashed and not-at-all professional. “Surprised you’d take up with his kind, knowin’ the offer you’ve been sittin’ on.”

He did not allow himself to show any sort of reaction, but he felt his whole body go cold. There was only one offer she could be speaking of. Whoever this woman was to McCree, she also had connections to Talon. Connections to Ogundimu himself, if he had not shared his plans with the organization more broadly. Ashe watched him process, and her smile grew wider.

“Akande’s told me a lot about you,” she practically purred.

“Funny. He has never mentioned you.”

She seemed unfazed by the barb. He wondered how much of her short temper was specific to McCree. “You do bounty work these days, don’t you? Guess it’s not a total surprise Jesse’d wanna work with you. He’s always tried to bat outta his league.” She cut her eyes toward McCree with that sideways smirk again.

He was not sure what to say here either, but he thought perhaps the truth would be appropriate. There was no need for Talon to decide McCree was worth more attention due to his presumed connections to Hanzo. “We are not really—”

“Oh honey, trust me. I know. There’s no way you’re actually slummin’ it with—”

“We are not really here to make small talk.” Hanzo took a great deal of satisfaction out of hearing her teeth click shut at the sight of his hand on McCree’s thigh. He had to ignore the way the thick muscle felt beneath his palm and banish the urge to trail his fingers along the inseam, but stopping her presumptuous insults — whatever sideways version of the truth they happened to be — made it well worth the effort. “Get to the point.”

Only a twitch of a perfectly shaped brow gave away her irritation; it was a surprising amount of restraint after the way she had spoken to McCree. Her eyes narrowed, almost reptilian in the way they regarded him, and in that fleeting instant, something slid into place.

She was brash and abrasive, though her ability to turn it off with Hanzo suggested at least some of it was deliberate. She liked to hear herself talk, had a flair for the dramatic, and she radiated enough confidence that it made one wonder whether she’d earned it. She was also far cleverer than any of these individual traits might lead one to believe.

The familiarity of some of her mannerisms suddenly made a great deal more sense, as did her quick fuse with McCree. Hanzo did not laugh, but he wanted to.

“Fine. I already know why you’re here. I got a deal for you two,” she said.

“We’re listenin’.”

“Some of those boys out there are gettin’ too big for their britches. Think they can skim off the top and I won’t notice. You take care of them and leave my girl here out of it, I’ll shut down this whole operation.”

McCree snorted. “Just like that, huh?”

“Profit margins are too slim anyway. It’s no skin off my nose.”

“What’re you doing runnin’ guns this far outside of Deadlock territory?”

She smirked. “That answer’s above your paygrade.”

“You expanding your reach? Speakin’ of gettin’ too big for your britches…” McCree let out one of his low whistles. “Might wanna keep an eye on that. Never know what kind of attention you’ll attract.” The irritated pinch of her mouth suggested McCree had guessed correctly. It explained some things, at least. That this gang were being guided by a much stronger, more established player — one who knew they were there, and knew McCree well enough she might be able to predict some of his movements — cast their difficulties with the investigation into a much clearer light. “And why can’t you handle a handful of backwoods lowlifes yourself? No offense, Natalie.”

Natalie seemed startled to have been addressed at all, and as though she’d prefer they forget about her entirely. “None taken?”

Ashe spoke right over her. “Because you’re already there, I don’t feel like wastin’ resources on these jokers, and you owe me after what you did to B.O.B. You think he wants to travel that far? You know how much he hates flyin’.” Something moved behind Ashe, then an omnic crowded in to take up most of the screen. He wore a bowler hat and a faceplate that suggested a particularly absurd mustache. He also waved an enormous hand.

“Howdy, B.O.B.” McCree said, this time with a genuine grin. “Looks like no hard feelings from him.”

Ashe made a sound almost like a growl, shoving at the omnic in an effort to make him move. It was not especially fruitful; next to him she was tiny. A low whirring barely registered through the holo screen, and Ashe muttered unintelligibly at him. She rolled her eyes again.

“He says _of course_ there are no hard feelings, and he’s glad he gets to see you again.” She scowled at the omnic. “Happy?” Another electric whir. Ashe sighed, long and pronounced. “And he thinks your boyfriend is very handsome. He wants to know if you’re happy.”

Hanzo was not sure if he imagined the hesitation or not, but McCree’s hand closed on his shoulder and dragged him closer. “Uh, sure am. Thanks, B.O.B.,” he said in a funny, strained voice, as if it pained him to lie to B.O.B. in particular.

There was a chirp and B.O.B. moved off screen, leaving Ashe to collect herself, pale cheeks tinted faintly pink as she tugged clothing into place that had not been disheveled to begin with. She cleared her throat. “Lemme put it to you plainer. You can take out the trash like I asked, or I can bring the whole crew out there to cause a ruckus. It’ll be just like the good ol’ days.” McCree went still beside him, thigh tensing under his hand. Having re-established control over the situation after the curious embarrassment of the omnic’s interjection, she gave a slow, smug smile. “I’ll let you decide.”

The hand at Hanzo’s shoulder squeezed as if to hold him still. He expected McCree to talk his way out of it, or to try to rile her up again. He did not expect McCree’s simple, grim, “We’ll do it.”

Hanzo stiffened, struggling to hide his surprise. Whatever exchange had just occurred had done so in a shorthand he did not understand. McCree’s thumb rubbed along Hanzo’s short sleeve as if to calm him.

“Glad we could come to an understanding,” she said sweetly. The rest did not take long in truth, but it _felt_ interminable.

There was no satisfaction in discovering that his earlier epiphany was correct. Ashe and McCree were indeed far too alike to get along, and more than that, each seemed to amplify the other’s most obnoxious behaviors. It took less than five minutes for them to exhaust Hanzo with their bickering. He attempted to exchange a tired glance with Natalie, but she only stared the thousand yard stare of someone reconsidering all her life choices. He had to distract himself by keeping score; by his measure, the scoreboard was more or less even, with Natalie and him as the ultimate losers.

He was unsure how they managed to accomplish anything through the clash of egos, but manage they did. Once they had made their plans, Ashe gave Hanzo another slow sweeping look. “One more thing, Shimada.”

He met her gaze steadily, suppressing an impatient sigh. “Yes?”

“If he dies on your watch, I’m comin’ for your ass. Don’t care _what_ Akande wants _._ Only person allowed to kill that son of a bitch is me.”

With that pronouncement, she ended the call, and they were left alone in the room with Natalie, who had finally recovered somewhat, although she was quite far from regaining the confidence she’d had in the diner. She handed them a drive containing the information they would need to get started, then she unlocked the door.

On the way out, McCree suddenly paused. “Quick question for you, ma’am.”

“Sure.”

“When did you figure out who I was?”

Natalie let out a surprised laugh, though at least some of it sounded like nerves. “Didn’t know for sure til I got a good look at the arm, but I suspected the first night we met. You look just like your wanted poster.”

Hanzo snorted and seized his opportunity for the smug _I told you so_ look.

 

* * *

 

He had many, many questions about the whole meeting, but based on McCree’s brooding face, it seemed unwise to pursue until they were back at the house. Hanzo drove this time in order to allow McCree to spend several minutes with his eyes squeezed shut, the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers.

He still did not know who Ashe was to McCree, but their familiarity had been apparent. They did not look enough alike to be siblings, but the shared mannerisms and inability to stand one another for long seemed to suggest something like it. The frustrating, jealous part of his brain suggested she might be an ex-girlfriend, but McCree had never once indicated an interest in women — a fact that vexed Hanzo daily with its ability to present both opportunity and an acute reminder that the rejection was personal, not something that could be written off as a simple mismatch in their preferences.

She was in Deadlock though, was a leader, possibly _the_ leader. She also had connections to Talon, spoke of Ogundimu himself as if she actually knew him. Unless Ogundimu was broadcasting to the entirety of Talon just how many times Hanzo had rejected his recruitment efforts, it was likely she was reasonably well trusted within their ranks. That meant status.

These were the things he could extrapolate from the evidence. His gut told him there was more to it than that, that perhaps her relationship with Ogundimu was something more than simply professional. Both this and her willingness to simply give up the operation were troubling.

There was some comfort to be had though, at least as far as his pride was concerned. If Ashe had known early on that McCree was here looking into the shipments, it made much more sense that a leader of a gang like Deadlock, who also knew McCree quite well, would be able to confound them for so long. It certainly explained more than if they truly had been outmaneuvered by some tiny, no-name gang.

Whatever else he was curious about, no other questions were as pressing as the one he asked the moment they stepped inside the house: “What is your real plan?”

“Do the job she gave us,” McCree said tersely.

“You are not serious.”

“’Fraid I am.” It was a short walk from the front door to the back porch, and he followed McCree the whole way. McCree dug around his pockets until he found something to smoke. “She all but threatened to start a gang war here. Ashe bluffs a lot, but not about shit like that.”

“And you will simply capitulate to her?”

“It’s not—” McCree cut his eyes sideways at him, then he huffed. “You ever seen a gang war?”

“Obviously.”

“Right. Obviously,” McCree repeated wryly, over enunciating every syllable. “You ever seen one that didn’t have collateral damage?” Hanzo inhaled sharply, ashamed he had never paid enough attention to know one way or another. It did not seem to matter anyway; the question had been rhetorical. “I hate collateral damage. And with Deadlock, it tends to be less incidental. The damage is half the ‘fun’.”

“Is this what the ‘good old days’ entailed?”

McCree scrubbed a hand over his face, staring out at the fenced in yard. “Somethin’ like that,” he said quietly. “One of us outgrew it, and the other got worse.” He made a sound that was not a laugh, brow still drawn and troubled. “People here have been good to us. They deserve better.”

“You can’t expect those weapons to simply disappear. And you will be helping her consolidate her power. There will be greater casualties in the end, here or somewhere else.”

“That’s a problem for another day. Right now, right in front of us? We can shut down the operation without more bloodshed than strictly required. Won’t have to eat your damn waffles wonderin’ if you signed Ms. Sharon’s death warrant.”

While Hanzo digested this, he also took the opportunity to change out of his unneeded gear. The break from McCree made little difference in Hanzo’s thinking this time. He didn’t have a strong argument against any plan that could complete the mission, although it rankled to fold so easily to someone so arrogant. He could also respect McCree’s point: if they took care of the gang here quickly and quietly, the town’s residents were safer in the end. Perhaps they could root out the gang entirely and leave this place better than they had found it.

When he had finished changing, he found McCree in the kitchen with two coffee mugs in hand, one extended to Hanzo as soon as he got close. Hanzo contemplated the whiskey inside his mug, then the ugly red barn depicted on the outside. He supposed he was meant to relax now, but the silent exchange filled him with frustrated anticipation. McCree clearly had something more to say, and just as clearly seemed hesitant to do so.

He waited until they had each taken a sip before he finally spoke. “What Ashe said back there about Talon tryin’ to court you. Was that true?”

The question did nothing for Hanzo’s growing tension. “It was.”

“Is that somethin’ you’re still considering?”

“No.”

McCree breathed out harshly. He seemed on edge about this, and that energy made Hanzo equally anxious. “Why’d you keep it secret then?”

“I didn’t. I simply did not tell you. It didn’t seem wise to report on something that I never agreed to when it would only raise suspicions.”

“Raises suspicions to find out that you hid it too.”

It was not an accusation, not quite, but it felt like one. “Did you think I _would_ join them?”

McCree at least had the decency to look uneasy, cheeks going pink. His blush would have been unbearably charming in most other circumstances, but here he hesitated, and Hanzo understood that as answer enough.

It was a reasonable suspicion to have. Due diligence to ask it, regardless of what one believed to be true, and yet it made something ache in the pit of his stomach.

Genji’s gift of forgiveness, of understanding, was made all the more poignant when Hanzo was forced to confront that other people would never offer it so freely, or perhaps at all. But he had not considered until very recently that he might _want_ someone else to forgive or understand him, nor how he might feel if he wanted but could not have it.

Perhaps this was what he needed to put an end to his silly infatuation: a reminder outside his own head that McCree neither wanted nor fully trusted him.

McCree made a pained sound. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not personal. You know I couldn’t just leave it.”

“Of course,” Hanzo answered stiffly.

“You’d do the same in my shoes.” There was a strange pleading note to McCree’s voice, as though Hanzo were the one causing some injury.

“Perhaps as a necessary precaution. Not because I actually believed you might betray us.” McCree made that sound again. “Your… _compatriot_ works with Talon. For all we know this job is for them, and you took it without consulting me, and I still did not think to ask you—”

“Hanzo—”

“I wouldn’t. Betray you.” He felt his face go hot, his voice straining with the effort to push the words out and keep them steady in the face of McCree’s widening eyes. “Any of you, I mean. In Overwatch.”

He would have liked to escape then, but he was not sure whether he should go to the bedroom or outside. It didn’t especially matter anyway; his feet refused to move. “That’s… good to hear.” McCree shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable. “I’m not real sure what this is. Are you mad?”

“No, not angry.” This time he could not fault McCree for thinking it was a lie; the answer came out too harshly. He wasn’t angry though. He felt injured, but he did not know how to express that to McCree in a way that would not reveal too much. Hanzo tried more than once to begin another statement, but he found it too difficult to name the feeling. Finally, haltingly, he said, “I know I cannot expect you to think more highly of me after what I’ve done, but I thought you might anyway.” Hanzo cleared his throat. “And it seems that I was wrong, and so I am… not angry, and I do not blame you, but I don’t know what to call it.”

He instantly regretted sharing. His heartbeat had nearly doubled, and anxiety stabbed a hot, uncomfortable spike through his chest and stomach. McCree’s face seemed to reflect Hanzo’s distress. When he was certain he could not stand to look at McCree any longer, McCree spoke again. “It’s not _you_. Historically, this stuff hasn’t really worked out for me.”

“What stuff?”

“Trusting that I knew somebody well enough. I’ve been sure a few times that someone would _never_ do the thing they ended up doin’.” McCree was staring into his mug, brow drawn down. Perversely and quite unfairly, Hanzo wanted to comfort _him_. “Happened with Ashe, a few times with Reyes, with Overwatch brass, and— I had to ask, is all. Just had to know how you’d answer. It wasn’t meant to hurt your feelings.”

The words slowed and turned upward at the end, almost like a question, and Hanzo’s stomach clenched in response. In the back of his mind, he was almost embarrassed by his automatic nod and his murmured “Alright.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, but he was certain further discussion would be even worse. He felt quite exposed enough. But McCree had never been able to leave well enough alone. He reached out, fingers light on Hanzo’s arm.

Excepting the bizarre unspoken ritual of their sleeping habits, they rarely touched when they were in private. When there was no show to put on. McCree’s hand on his forearm then felt alarmingly intimate, and Hanzo resented that McCree could _do_ that, hold his attention so completely by doing so little himself. “Why does it matter what I think anyway?”

Under the weight of McCree’s gaze, Hanzo suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. In the fantasies that plagued him, this would be the point at which he broke and confessed, where he kissed McCree and McCree kissed him back and they might set about defiling the kitchen counter. Faced with the reality of it, even knowing this might be the best opportunity he was likely to get to unburden himself, the nauseated twist in his gut kept him from doing any of these things.

He took a shaky breath. “I had thought, after everything, that we might at least understand one another better.” It wasn’t a lie, at least, though that consolation hardly made him feel less like a coward. It still felt too heavy, and McCree was still watching him as if he expected something more, so Hanzo thought of the character he’d played so many times now in public, and he made himself huff out a laugh, forced his tone into something teasing. “You’ll tell me your opinion whether or not I ask, but when I pay attention to it, you’re concerned?”

Something unknowable flickered over McCree’s face, then he laughed too with a quick duck of his head, and he mercifully let Hanzo go. “You’re right. Guess I should be grateful you listened at all.”

The tension did not dissipate entirely, but it was eased enough that they could get back to their real work. They set up at the kitchen table as usual, going through the files Ashe had provided on each of the traitors. McCree stood too close and acted for all the world as if nothing had happened, and Hanzo did his best to ignore the disappointment worming up into his rib cage.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they attend a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning for a very brief allusion to domestic violence.

The sunlight caused dust motes to sparkle in the kitchen, lending a contradictory brightness to their task. They stood at the table, poring over the records of each of the suspected traitors Ashe and Natalie had identified. Most of this gang had rap sheets that were surprisingly tame for weapons traffickers: B&Es, drug possession, petty theft.

It seemed McCree came to a similar conclusion. “Not sure any of these has done anything worth dyin’ over. Not even sure they woulda gotten into anything this size without Ashe pushin’ ’em in the first place.”

“You’re likely correct.” Hanzo hummed and flipped through to the next record.

“So I think we oughta just scare them. Maybe set up the ringleaders to get arrested. No killin’ unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

“Agreed. Although this one might require something harsher.” He pointed at the picture of a white man with blandly handsome features, whose record indicated a peculiar history of alleged assaults that were never followed up with pressed charges. The police reports described intervening at his own home for most of these.

McCree moved unsettlingly close to peer over his shoulder. “He do somethin’ to offend you?”

“No. I simply believe that if he cannot keep his hands to himself, he would be better off without them.”

McCree let out one of his whistles; this one trailed off and directly into his low chuckle, still far too close to Hanzo’s ear. “Downright biblical.”

“I wouldn’t know. Is that a bad thing?”

“No. I’m tellin’ you I like your style.”

He only grunted his response, unsure he trusted himself with more words. Yesterday’s strange conversation and all its regrettable _almost_ s were still fresh in his mind. McCree of course did nothing to acknowledge whatever had passed between them, which only solidified Hanzo’s certainty that he was at risk of imagining more there than actually existed.

After some debate, they selected for their first target a man named Henderson. He was likely very low in the hierarchy — he was young, and the only thing on his record was a night spent in jail for a drunken brawl at the bar.

It seemed he was, in fact, too low in the hierarchy.

They interrogated him in the darkness of his own bedroom. Nothing about his protests indicated he was anything less than honest when he insisted he knew nothing about any traitors. He did not give up any names, but he did give up the contents of his bladder before McCree was finished _speaking_ with him. Having determined that they had frightened him enough to forestall his involvement with the traitors — and perhaps with the gang at all, at least for the time being — they left him alone.

They unmasked once they were well away from the young man’s house, and Hanzo fought down a smile as he watched McCree scratch a hand through his hair only to tangle it further. McCree’s shoulders shook on a silent laugh, and when they shut the doors to the truck he finally released the sound.

“Scared the actual piss outta him,” he snickered.

Although it started small, the laugh evolved quickly into something loud and infectious, and Hanzo could not stop his answering grin this time. “I hope your shoes escaped the incident unscathed.”

McCree pulled a face at that, but any disgust dissolved quickly into another helpless laugh. The sight and sound of it made Hanzo’s lungs feel too small, but it also seemed to set right the sense of imbalance generated by yesterday’s uncomfortable conversation. Working together could still be enjoyable.

He would survive this and so, it seemed, would their partnership.

 

* * *

 

In the morning they ate breakfast at the diner, joked and teased each other over waffles and eggs and coffee. It went a long way toward convincing Hanzo that they were back to business as usual.

Along with their check, Sharon brought them a bright blue envelope, with the self-conscious caveat, “If you were still plannin’ to be in town.”

Hanzo opened it for them both, and he pulled out a greeting card decorated with an illustration of a single red cup. McCree seemed to find it funny, but he did not explain. Inside was a message informing them that they were invited to a party at Sharon’s house.

When she returned to take her payment, McCree was beaming at her. “We would love to come, Ms. Sharon. You need us to bring anything? Been told I make a mean potato salad.”

Her eyes went wide and she made a face that Hanzo recognized as someone rallying their words for the most polite response and failing to hide the process. “Don’t you worry about that, sugar. Been hostin’ this thing every summer for a decade, so most of the food’s already taken care of. If y’all wanna help out, you could bring some ice or a few liters of soda.”

On the way back to the house, McCree grumpily translated the exchange. “She don’t trust us with food at _all_.” Hanzo could only take his word for it and do his best to talk McCree out of making the dish anyway to prove some point that was beyond his ability to comprehend.

Prying Natalie for information revealed that the party was more than only good for their cover. It was not unlikely that several of the gang’s members and allies might be in attendance; Natalie herself was going.

Before the day of the party arrived, they harassed two more suspected traitors and developed something of a system. Masked, in dark but otherwise unremarkable clothing, they would approach the suspects in their homes. McCree did the talking, as they had concluded quickly that Hanzo’s accent would be too conspicuous in a place like this; it was his job to stand there silently and menacingly with his hand on a gun.

They were beginning the work with those who they assumed would be the weakest links — those least embedded and thus most likely to give up information with minimal pressure. So far their efforts had only resulted in crossing suspects off their list, but they could be patient.

In the meantime, Hanzo did his best to enjoy the satisfaction of having something new to do, to ignore the effects of McCree’s smile or his entrance into a room, and to keep up his efforts to contact Genji with some regularity. He was in the middle of the latter exercise, having sent Genji a picture he had taken of some of the town’s crumbling storefronts, when he heard McCree in the kitchen, talking too loudly with a tinny voice on the other end.

McCree was meant to be updating Ashe on the steps they had taken so far, but it sounded instead like they were bickering, and Hanzo could hear every word. McCree had her on the speaker, his hands occupied cutting tiny potatoes into bite-sized halves. Hanzo watched his hands work for a moment before his own phone chimed again.

[Genji]: That place looks like a shithole. Nice composition though.

Hanzo snorted and considered suggesting that Genji would like the surrounding landscape even if he did not like the town itself, but he realized he did not actually know if that was true. Rather than let that thought drag him down a particularly depressing rabbit hole, he allowed himself to be distracted by the increasingly boisterous conversation in the kitchen and the annoyance it wrought.

Ashe asked, “How much to get you to send me a picture of your boyfriend in a swimsuit?”

McCree glanced back at Hanzo with a wry smile that made his stomach do a flip even through the irritation. “You know he knows at least a dozen ways to kill you with his bare hands, right?”

“Don’t act like that’s not part of the appeal. I _know you_. So’s that a ‘no’?”

“Of course it’s a ‘no’.”

“God, you’re a buzzkill these days. Doesn’t matter. I bet Nat’ll do it.”

Hanzo cleared his throat and announced, “I know at least a dozen ways to kill her with my bare hands too.”

Had he expected that to silence her, he would have been disappointed. Her laugh sounded genuinely delighted. “Cut out the middleman and send it yourself, then.”

“I am hanging up now. We will contact you when there is progress on the job.” Hanzo did exactly that, not bothering to listen for a response from her. He leveled his irritated stare at McCree. “If you think you cannot manage her, I will gladly take over.”

“I had it.”

“I suppose we’ll never know if you were planning to cut the call or spend the next fifteen minutes poking at one another like last time.”

McCree flushed. “Is there somethin’ you’re trying to say here?”

“I was sparing us all another round of your childish squabbling.”

“ _Me_? She’s the one who—” Hanzo arched an eyebrow, and McCree cut himself off. To his credit, he seemed to realize there was no way to finish that sentence that would not sound suspiciously like _but she started it_. “Don’t see why you care one way or another.”

“Consider it a noise complaint if you must.” He breathed in slowly, then let it out in a controlled exhale. “That was not so bad, but you wind each other up. She brings out the most irritating things in you, and you indulge it, and it is difficult to witness when I know you are better than that.” The words came out too fast at the end, and he wanted to take them back, because McCree did not have an immediate response. He only stared with a tiny wrinkle between his brows, like Hanzo was a puzzle he had to put together.

The smile that followed was not what Hanzo expected either, and Hanzo was halfway successful at convincing himself that was what made it so disarming. “I’ll keep it in mind, I guess.”

 

* * *

 

It had taken most of the week, but he managed to persuade McCree to respect Sharon's request not to bring food — especially potato salad, which Hanzo had since learned was something curiously sacred to some Americans. McCree still seemed determined to make up for something in their contributions to the party.

They arrived with a dozen two-liter bottles of soda, as well as three enormous bags of crushed ice. Hanzo remained silent while Sharon directed them with wide eyes toward her kitchen, where he deposited his armfuls of shopping bags on the counter. While the particulars were somewhat lost on him, Sharon and McCree’s sudden excessive politeness with one another almost reminded him of home, although he had never seen someone act passive-aggressive about food in quite the same manner.

“You two brought your swimsuits, didn’t ya?” Sharon asked once they had arranged the drinks to her liking. Her own was a charming floral one-piece with a ruffle around the hips.

Hanzo had hoped that they might have some time to adjust before faced with this. “Of course.” Even he could tell that his smile was tight, and it remained firmly in place while Sharon directed them to a guest room they might change clothes in.

There was, of course, no reason for a couple to take turns.

Hanzo stared hard at the pink floral quilt on the bed and changed as quickly as he could, doing his best to think of anything other than McCree naked just behind him. He could and would make it through this; there was no reason to turn changing clothes into another source of distress. He had dressed and undressed alongside dozens of people in his lifetime in entirely nonsexual ways, and yet just the sound of rustling fabric behind him threatened his ability to think straight.

He took several steadying breaths and thought bracingly of Winston’s eating habits. McCree’s strangely high-pitched laugh interrupted these efforts. “That’s what you brought to swim in?”

Hanzo looked down at himself, then he turned around to face McCree. “Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s fine.” McCree scrubbed both hands over his face, fingers pressed for a moment over his closed eyes. “Totally fine, everything’s fine, I just—” He opened his eyes again, and waved a hand at Hanzo as if that communicated anything _._ “There’s no way those don’t violate some kinda public indecency laws.”

“It’s a good thing we are not in public, then.” He eyed McCree’s swimwear to compare, and he supposed his own was much smaller, though McCree’s shorts seemed like a ridiculous waste of fabric. Hanzo could concede that this may have been motivated reasoning though. “Is there some hydrodynamic advantage to covering oneself to the knees?”

McCree opened his mouth, then shut it again. “You know what? You’re right. Forget I said anything. Bein’ inconspicuous is overrated.” He let out a sound that was not quite a laugh, not quite a plain exhale.

“I believe we left inconspicuous behind a while ago.”

“Good news is nobody’s gonna be lookin’ real close at me.”

It was difficult to determine from the tone whether McCree was teasing him or not, but in either case it was a welcome distraction. He may have found McCree’s board shorts disappointing, but they still hung low on his hips and he was still bare from the waist up. Hanzo was willing to take any relief he could get, even if it came in the form of low grade irritation.

When they were finished, they made their way to the back of the house, which opened up to a sprawling patio and the promised swimming pool. If it seemed more than a diner waitress ought to be able to afford, Hanzo quickly remembered her talk about her dead husband, and he put it out of mind.

There were more attendees than places to sit, but most did not seem to care. They recognized few of the other guests, and even fewer from their files. Sharon’s boyfriend was one of them, but they hoped that more would trickle in as the party continued. In the meantime, they were introduced to Sharon’s son Ray, home from university and playing bartender for the occasion. Options were limited to cheap beer or to homemade margaritas, which delighted McCree to no end.

“Told you we needed that much ice.” McCree took a huge, satisfied sip of his slushy green drink, followed immediately by a wince Hanzo could only interpret as a cold-stimulus headache. He snorted and sipped much more carefully at his own.

McCree was able to mingle with a far greater ease than Hanzo, but the cover identity combined with a little bit of tequila made it go more smoothly than it might otherwise. Several guests took special interest in Hanzo’s tattoo, which he explained away with a story about his attachment to an old fable from his childhood.

More guests arrived, and others left early, but none of the newcomers were on their list of suspects. Still, they were not yet willing to give up. Sharon said more people might show up later in the evening. In the interim, with so few suspects to keep track of and no immediate reason to act on any information they gleaned, they determined they were allowed to relax, which McCree interpreted as an excuse for another margarita.

Evening arrived with more guests, though none of these were on their list of suspects either. Tired of strangers and of the strain of having to convincingly play boyfriend for an extended duration, he pulled McCree aside under the guise of taking a smoke break. There was a trio of people even out on this side of the fence; one of them, the police officer from the diner, gave Hanzo a look that lingered longer than it should have. It didn’t seem to be suspicion, though. “I do not recognize many of the other guests.”

McCree made a thoughtful sound. “Same. I’m feelin’ a little shy without our usual buddies. We can go if the crowd is too much for you.”

Just past McCree’s shoulder, the officer continued to send furtive glances their way, and for a moment Hanzo wondered if their jokes about being conspicuous should have been taken more seriously. But as the man’s friends stubbed out their cigarettes and headed back toward the party, he shot Hanzo one final look, and it suddenly made much more sense.

“We could stay a while longer. It would be good to relax. Perhaps make some friends.” McCree looked genuinely confused by that last. “I think I left something in the truck. Would you help me look?”

Once there and with the doors shut, McCree asked, “What?”

“There are police here. Off duty. We could figure out what they know if we stick around. One of them even _looked_ at us.” McCree raised his eyebrows. His face so blatantly projected how ready he was to say something sarcastic that Hanzo did not give him the opportunity to speak at all. “Not suspiciously. Like he… appreciated what he saw.

McCree let out a sharp laugh. Then he chewed his lip before he asked, “At risk of exposing my ego to some real injury, are you sure he was lookin’ at _us_? Because, uh, given the current state of... you, I’d bet money I didn’t even factor in.”

“Is this about my shorts again?”

“ _Please_ stop actin’ like that’s something normal people wear to a big party, but yes, it’s about the shorts and how extraordinarily unlikely it is he was lookin’ at me when you are ninety percent naked.”

“He may have been looking at me.” Despite that it was flattering, he hated to concede that McCree was right. “So I should be the one to talk to him. Flirt or just talk?”

He had expected another quick response, and he found himself with more impatience than the situation required when McCree hesitated. He pushed the feeling down, reminded himself that they had a job to do, and tried to wait him out.

Finally, McCree said, “Just talk? Maybe some of that ‘this ain’t goin’ anywhere but it sure is fun’ light flirting.” Hanzo sighed. “What? You do it all the time.” McCree was laughing while he said it, but when he registered Hanzo’s embarrassment, the sound faltered. He cleared his throat. “Know what? Doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re not trying to get his number. Too much and you’re gonna make our cover messier.”

“If it would still help the case…”

“You sayin’ you’d step out on me?” McCree grinned.

“We would not be the first couple to come to some arrangement.”

McCree inhaled sharply. “Gotta be honest, I’m not sure I could play that believably. If it comes to it I could probably do ‘jealous guy pushin’ his boyfriend into someone else’s arms ironically because he acts too jealous’ or ‘love-blinded fool who doesn’t even notice it happening under his nose,’ though.”

“Those were very specific. I sense another story.” McCree’s cheeks flushed just faintly, and Hanzo turned to examine the dashboard. “If you are uncomfortable with the plan—”

“No,” McCree said on what sounded curiously like a sigh. “Do whatever it is you gotta do to feel him out. Probably gettin’ ahead of ourselves anyway.”

“Are you sure? You seem—”

“I’m fine.”

It seemed like another of those obvious lies, and yet it functioned as a clear signal not to pursue that line of questioning. Hanzo hesitated to change the subject, uncertain he should reveal more here, before he decided that it was part of his mission partner’s job to help him. “I have never been in position to flirt while maintaining a relationship with someone else. I am not sure I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re just bein’ friendly and enjoying the attention.”

“You may have noticed that I am not well-practiced at being personable.”

McCree seemed genuinely tickled by this. “You askin’ for my input?”

“I see no one else to ask.”

“Okay. You just pretend whatever he says is more interesting than it actually is, let yourself be flattered so he can see it and feel good about himself. That’s all. You don’t wanna be _too_ available if we’re keepin’ this cover story, but you can, y’know, hint that you’re annoyed with me right now or somethin’ so there’s a little plausibility for him to work with.” McCree smirked. “He’s already interested. It’s not like you gotta try real hard. Just don’t be an out-and-out dick.”

Hanzo forced out a laugh. “I see.”

McCree’s eyes searched his face as though he sensed Hanzo’s continued lack of faith. “Alright, here’s a confession: only reason we ever got along at first is because I figured if Genji was tryin’ to forgive you, it made no sense for me to make it harder for him by causin’ friction. I definitely didn’t think I’d ever _like_ bein’ around you, but I do. Most of the time. So. If you managed to win me over, I’m sure you can handle a few minutes trying to charm a stranger who already wants in your pants.”

Hanzo’s chest and lungs prickled and he felt painfully aware of the blood that had rushed to his cheeks. He did not know exactly what was written on his face, but it seemed impossible that McCree could _not_ know how Hanzo felt just by looking at him in that moment. The caution in McCree’s voice and the guarded way his lips thinned suggested something like it.

It likely only took seconds, but it felt like a very long time before Hanzo could look away. “Thank you,” he said stiffly, doing his best not to appear that he was scrambling for equilibrium. “So I will flirt and you can… do that thing you do,” he gestured, looking for the words and unsatisfied by all his options, “that makes people like you so they tell you things they would not otherwise.”

“You mean talk to them?” McCree’s smirk suggested that whatever that moment had been, it had already passed and did not linger for him.

“Yes, it is just talk the same way your gift with card games is just luck.”

McCree laughed unexpectedly loudly, too big for the small space. “Is that a compliment? Hard to tell with you sometimes.”

He sighed, ensuring it was nearly as loud as McCree’s laugh. “Come, we have a job to do.”

They returned to the party to find the police officers in the pool. He procrastinated by retrieving another drink for himself, although he asked Ray to make it weaker this time; he had no desire to get drunk on the job. McCree had no such compunctions. After a few bracing sips, he looked up at McCree and gestured at the pool. “Would you like to get in?”

“Think I’m good for now, snickerdoodle.” Hanzo felt the blood drain from his cheeks at the nickname, and at the effort it took to avoid making a face. McCree’s lips twitched. “You go right ahead though.”

The officers were close enough to the steps leading into the pool that the act got the attention of the one Hanzo was meant to speak to. Hanzo hoped his very real sigh would read as disappointment with his boyfriend, and he left McCree there without another word. He took the side of the steps closest to the police officers, and he carefully made his way into the cool water, one hand on the slippery railing and the other held high with his drink in hand.

“Excuse me,” was all he said, but when he looked at the three of them, he let his gaze linger longest on the mark. The unabashed look he received in return at least bolstered the ego McCree unwittingly left raw, and he smirked to acknowledge the man before he moved farther into the water, coming to a rest several feet away at the side of the pool.

While he waited to find out if the mark would take the bait, he watched McCree work the party. He had found Natalie, who appeared to be doing her best not to be intimidated. Whatever McCree said to her, some of the tension drained away. She even laughed and waved him toward some of the other guests. She poured McCree and several others shots from a bottle Hanzo could not read from this distance, and McCree glanced up in time to wink at Hanzo before the whole group drank.

Hanzo sighed and pushed his own drink a little farther from himself. One of them would have to drive eventually.

“Doesn’t seem right to leave someone all alone at a party,” said a voice to Hanzo’s right.

“I do not mind.” Hanzo shrugged and glanced to the side to see the officer he was meant to flirt with. “But I also don’t mind company.”

The man smiled and introduced himself as Wade. He was good looking in a boring sort of way, thicker around the middle but with muscle underneath. He was also clearly several drinks in, and his open admiration bordered on leering. “Seen you around the diner with your… husband? Boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend.”

“How long you two been together?”

“A few months.”

“Does he usually just leave you sittin’ alone at parties?”

Hanzo could have laughed; McCree had been right about how easy this would be. “I wouldn’t know. We don’t go to many.”

“That’s a real shame.” Wade stood close, leaning into his space, and Hanzo did not back away.

He let himself smile and laugh and be flattered by this man, and it took little else. He shared that he was a writer and gave away small details where necessary, but mostly he asked questions and let Wade go on about his job and his pets and his friends.

Every now and then Hanzo would check on McCree. Sometimes McCree was looking back, keeping an eye on the proceedings. More often, he was talking to other guests, sipping at his drink and smiling brightly for them.

Wade was crowding closer, in the middle of a story about his very first arrest when McCree flopped down heavily on the other side of Hanzo, dangling his legs in the pool. “Havin’ fun, darlin’?”

His knee was warm where it nudged Hanzo’s arm, and he tried not to find it too distracting. “Of course. Wade, meet my boyfriend John.”

The man was noticeably dissatisfied by this turn of events, although he nodded politely at McCree anyway and shook his hand. “You know, you look awful familiar.”

McCree laughed at that, then he picked up Hanzo’s abandoned cup and drank the rest of its contents. “Get that a lot. Just have one of those faces, y’know?” He crunched down on a piece of ice when he smiled with too many visible teeth.

They had not discussed anything about this particular strategy, and a second look at McCree suggested his ability to strategize might be compromised. “Did you need something, dearest?” Hanzo asked as sweetly as he was able.

McCree stared back at him a moment too long, lending further credence to Hanzo’s suspicions. “Just makin’ sure you weren’t dyin’ of boredom. Looks like you’re makin’ friends just fine though.” Hanzo raised an eyebrow at him, and he seemed to grow flustered. “I can get outta your hair. Holler if you need me.”

Hanzo considered the wisdom of his response, but it was perfectly within the scope of a concerned boyfriend’s role. He seized the edge of McCree’s shorts, right by his knee, to get his attention. “You should probably switch to water.”

McCree saluted him and wandered off again, leaving Hanzo to his painfully uninteresting companion. He learned nothing of value, only that Wade enjoyed paintball and collecting some line of kitschy ceramics Hanzo had never heard of, both of which he could speak about at length as long as Hanzo nodded when he paused to take a breath.

When McCree came by again, this time to announce he would be disappearing for another smoke break, it was apparent he had not taken Hanzo’s advice about the water. Joining him was still a good justification for taking a reprieve. Hanzo was as polite as he could be as he excused himself, and he exited the pool under the weight of Wade’s appreciative stare.

McCree’s eyes followed the water that trailed down his torso, which led Hanzo to several assumptions that he blamed on Wade’s blatant ogling. He scowled to himself at the thought, and when he looked up from tying a towel around his waist, McCree’s eyes were on his face.

Outside the fence, Hanzo wasted no time before hissing, “Are you drunk?”

“Mm, nope.” The snicker that accompanied this answer made it deeply unconvincing.

“What have you been doing then?”

“Mingling. Talkin’ to folks. Keepin’ up my end of things while you...” McCree trailed off, and it took a moment for Hanzo to realize he was not going to finish the thought.

“While I learn more about _fly fishing_ than I will ever need to know.”

McCree grinned. “Really? That bad, huh?”

“I’m glad to see you still enjoy my suffering.”

“It’s not— Yeah, cause you’re just so darn cute when you pout.”

Hanzo’s face felt hot, and he wasn’t sure himself whether the culprit was vanity, embarrassment or indignation. “I will not be mocked by—”

McCree cut him off with a laugh. “Who said I was mockin’ you?” He did not have a good response for that. “So you’re not gettin’ anywhere. That’s fine. We could go if you want.”

He considered it and realized he was only wearing himself out here. Something in his gut told him that it was worth pursuing leads through the police, but it did not have to be tonight. He agreed to leave and suggested that McCree have a seat and drink some water while Hanzo gathered their things and said their goodbyes.

It took longer than it should have, which Hanzo figured he should have expected; it had been a long time since he had been to a party like this, but he remembered that escaping them without being rude was always something of an endeavor.

He retrieved their things and said goodbye to Sharon and the many guests they had met this evening, and he made sure to smile just so and assure Wade they would likely see him again at the diner. It seemed wisest to keep that channel open the best he could, at least until they were sure there was nothing to be gained from it.

By the time he had finished, it had been at least half an hour. He found McCree slouched in a chair this time, gesturing broadly and clumsily while he spoke to Natalie.

“Come on. We’re going home.”

“Sure thing, darlin’,” McCree answered, too slowly and too slurred. Hanzo suddenly felt exhausted. McCree let Hanzo pull him to his feet and cooperated well enough as they said their final goodbyes, but he leaned heavily against Hanzo’s side as they walked around the side of the house and to the truck. “Baby. Honey. Sweet cheeks,” he said with a drunken laugh.

Hanzo shoved at him to keep him on his feet, but McCree leaned in much closer than he really should. His fingertips skirted the waistband along Hanzo’s hip, and Hanzo sucked in a quick breath like he could escape the touch that way. “I got a confession,” McCree practically crooned, and Hanzo was certain he should push McCree off him before his body started to get _ideas_. “These shorts are the worst thing anybody’s ever done to me.”

“I chose them as a personal attack against you,” Hanzo said dryly. The walk to the truck felt interminable.

“I thought so.” McCree laughed softly, a humid puff of air that hit Hanzo’s jaw and neck. McCree’s fingers were still curled over his hip, and Hanzo worked to remind himself that McCree was very, very drunk. “Swear you were sent here just to test me.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“God, you’re mean.”

“You said it first,” he said with his dwindling reserves of patience.

“You’re mean but you’re not mean-mean, y’know?”

They had at last arrived at the truck, but McCree’s weight pushed Hanzo against it, which made getting the door open rather difficult. “I do not know.”

“ _You_ know. You’re not usually mean to _me_ , are you? ’S nice.” McCree giggled, which would have been cute if Hanzo were not currently trapped between his drunk deadweight and the vehicle he so desperately wanted to use to escape this moment, and McCree, and maybe the whole town. “Mean as a snake, but downright sweet to me sometimes. Those shorts though. Those are _mean_.”

While he frequently felt like an absolute idiot around McCree, he wasn’t actually one. Even his impressive capacity for denial could not find any alternative explanation for the way McCree looked him over; it was about as subtle as a punch in the face. Drunk, though. McCree was so drunk there was hope he’d forget about this entirely and Hanzo wouldn’t have to bear any of the inevitable, awkward follow-up.

In the meantime, there was no reason to proceed any differently than before. “I’ll be sure to consult you next time so I do not offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities.” It was so slurred Hanzo could not tell where one consonant ended and the next began. McCree did finally let go of his hip, but it was to touch his cheek, which was not any better. It was in many ways much worse, especially since McCree managed to straighten enough to actually look at him, eyes heavy lidded and glassy and unquestionably focused on Hanzo’s mouth. Hanzo went still and held his breath, and his chest seized with how very unfair it was to be so close to something he wanted so badly, knowing he would be unable to accept it.

Then McCree laughed again and repeated, “Offendin’ my fuckin’ sensibilities.” He sighed. “Don’t ever change, Hanzo.” He patted his fingers where they rested against Hanzo’s cheek, then he finally stumbled back to give him enough distance that Hanzo could squeeze out from between him and the side of the truck.

Bundling McCree into the truck was not as difficult as he worried it would be after that, although he made sure to put a shirt on to avoid further incidents. The short drive back to the house was uneventful. It was hard to tell if McCree had fallen asleep in the passenger seat. Hanzo had to recite their grocery list in his mind to combat his body’s treasonous reminder of McCree’s manhandling, but at least he could do so in peaceful silence.

Besides, focusing on either the grocery list or the stubborn persistence of his arousal was preferable to examining the cold knot in his stomach or the tightness in his throat, although it was an inevitability of his nature that he got to those eventually. It had seemed clear before that McCree had no romantic interest in him; it was at times agonizing, but it was at least expected, and Hanzo was growing used to it. It was something else entirely to be unworthy of intimacy but appealing enough for sex, at least so long as McCree was inebriated.

It made him feel lessened somehow.

On the rare occasions he had indulged prior to joining Overwatch, sex without a personal connection was the goal. He did not know why this should feel so different beyond a more general and familiar sense of disappointment that their desires did not align.

Yet again McCree introduced some new ache Hanzo had been blissfully ignorant of before meeting him. The confusion bled rapidly into frustration.

When they arrived at the house and he turned off the truck, McCree did not budge. It was tempting to leave him out there, but Hanzo thought of how damp and cool it got overnight, and he chose to be merciful. He reached a hesitant hand across the cab, then shook him until he stirred.

“We’re here.”

McCree blinked bleary eyes at him. “Are you gonna make me sleep on the couch?”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” The way McCree’s eyes went wide and soft like a sad baby animal might have been either funny or endearing some other time. Even now it had some limited effect. “No. Just go to bed.”

He was blessedly silent on the way to the house, and Hanzo got the impression he was sulking. It made it easy to get him into the bed though. McCree flopped onto it facedown, stretched, and shifted his hips in a manner that made Hanzo quickly look away. Then he grew still.

Hanzo grabbed pajamas to change into and took them to the bathroom, where he stripped out of his chlorine-scented clothing and did not wait for the water to heat before climbing into the shower.

He was not sure how to manage the frustrating cocktail of emotions. It seemed perfectly obvious in hindsight that McCree at least found him attractive, although prior to this evening it had seemed more that McCree had noticed him in passing, not that he’d ever wanted anything… _actionable_ out of it. Had someone asked him before, Hanzo would have said it would be flattering to be the subject of McCree’s attentions. In reality, it only seemed to add insult to injury.

Even feeling as though he did not deserve something like a relationship with McCree, he found this incredibly unfair. His usual assurances that this would all go away when he returned to the Watchpoint seemed to fall flat, because now he could not _un_ -know this thing, and if he could find this sign of limited interest so upsetting, it cast doubt on the flimsy truth of those assurances in the first place.

He wondered if McCree knew about Hanzo’s feelings. The evidence was all there. He’d asked before why Hanzo cared so much about his opinion, and tonight he’d called Hanzo a flirt and teased him more than once. Most damningly, Hanzo could still hear his voice slurring, _You’re not usually mean to_ me _, are you?_

He wondered if McCree found it all very funny, if he used Hanzo’s attentions as a way to feel good about himself with no intent to reciprocate, and now he wanted more.

That thought in particular stung, but it was still not the worst. Most treacherous of all was the part of himself that wanted very badly to believe that tonight’s revelations were only the surface of things, and that McCree might feel something more substantial.

His mind shied away from that one, but it deflated some of the anger he had been trying to use to protect himself. He returned again to the things McCree had said to him, intending to either refresh his anger or analyze each statement to test them against his hypotheses. But this time he could focus only on his memory of McCree’s voice in his ear, of the barely-there rasp of his beard and lips against Hanzo’s cheek when he spoke, and he finally let out the shudder he had suppressed before.

Shameful as it felt under these circumstances, this diversion came to him more readily than the anger now, and it kept the grief at bay, and he had spent too many nights now with McCree’s flirting and touching and unconscious cuddling.

He sighed and adjusted his stance for better balance on the slick floor of the tub, and he took himself in hand. It was easy enough to concoct a scenario in which McCree was completely sober and still murmuring in his ear, his fingers tripping over Hanzo’s hip before sliding much farther under his waistband than they had in reality.

He leaned forward to brace his arm against the wall, forehead buried in the crook of his elbow. His stomach clenched as he imagined McCree’s voice stopping only because he had dropped to his knees and put his infuriating oral fixation to work. He would be enthusiastic, Hanzo thought, and thorough, and probably something of a tease, but what mattered most in the moment was that his mouth would be slick and his lips soft. Ashamed and guilty and still a little angry, Hanzo came with a harsh rush of air and a sound that he did his best to bury against his arm.

It certainly did not solve everything, but his fingers were clumsy as he finished washing himself, muscles loose and uncoordinated now, and he thought he might at least be able to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Debated with YourAverageJoke for a hot minute whether the final scene was deserving of a rating change. Opted for no, because I thought it would be more misleading to increase the rating than to assume two short _very_ suggestive paragraphs really merit an Explicit rating. If you disagree, please let me know!
> 
> 2\. The tiny shorts in question were 100% inspired by [these that I posted on Twitter](https://twitter.com/robocryptid/status/1121284573155950592).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is A Conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to mataglap, Theoroark, and YourAverageJoke for the beta read and cheerleading.

Hanzo lay panting, certain his rib cage might burst from the furious strain on his heart and lungs. The layer of sweat he’d worked up made his skin itch, and the grass brushing his bare limbs made it that much worse. Already the sun pressed down like a weight, and he flung one arm over his eyes to shield himself while he tried to calm his breathing.

Despite his overall insistence on maintaining his physique, he hated running. And yet it had seemed the only logical response to waking up, for once, before McCree. Hanzo could still picture him, shirtless in the bed they shared and lying distressingly close. Close enough for Hanzo to realize the same faint freckles that dusted his nose were darker and more prominent across his shoulders. It had been a perverse time to notice, as Hanzo was ostensibly still angry with him. Or perhaps he was hurt, or frustrated, or simply _confused_ ;it was difficult to say, but he was quite sure it was unpleasant. 

So he had done the only reasonable thing to work off his excess of anxious energy: he’d run. For the nearly three miles he had traveled to get to the park, his mind had gone blissfully blank, focused only on the rhythmic padding of his feet and his tightly controlled breathing. Now though, as he lay in the grass attempting to recover, memories of the night before came rushing back, accompanied by a riot of confused emotions.

Maybe he’d been stupid to deny such an obvious invitation. Not that he cared for the drunkenness, but he had to at least ask himself whether he would have said yes if McCree had been sober. He was too exhausted for shame at the moment, but he thought he _should_ feel ashamed that he would have jumped at the opportunity. 

He might have, anyway. He was still unsure what to make of McCree’s approach to the whole thing. The stares and the pawing were straightforward enough, but his words… Perhaps Hanzo would have had the nerve to say no after all. 

He had never appreciated McCree explaining Hanzo’s own motivations to him, and it was more than only _irritating_ to think he had done it in service to having sex. To whatever extent McCree had discussed anything to do with feelings, he’d said nothing about his own, only implied he knew about Hanzo’s. 

 _You’re not usually mean to_ me, _are you?_

He scoffed and moved his arm. Even with the sun still hanging low and orange on the horizon, the glint off the clouds was nearly blinding. Inviting that dull eye ache provided a brief distraction from his thoughts, at least until he could no longer stand it and had to shut his eyes again, afterimages dancing violently behind his eyelids. 

There was one thing about which he was even more certain than he had been last night: McCree knew. In hindsight Hanzo thought he should not be surprised. McCree was better at reading people than Hanzo was at keeping his emotions contained. 

McCree could have suspected for some time, confirmed it with Hanzo’s inability to quash it throughout the previous week, and tried to keep it to himself in the name of professionalism, or out of some effort not to exacerbate the problem, or maybe even out of pity. Then too many drinks and an eyeful of Hanzo’s excellent physical condition conspired to undo his attempts at decency. 

It could be flattering if it were not so distressing. 

It was one thing for McCree to know and keep it to himself, spare them both the indignity of rejection. It was quite another for him to attempt to leverage that knowledge. Hanzo let out a bitter laugh, wondering if he was meant to think of it as McCree doing him a _favor_. 

He had been willing to believe that he deserved to pine away miserably as long as McCree was a sort of innocent bystander to it all, but as it turned out, Hanzo was not self-loathing enough to believe he deserved to be used or mocked for the crime of having feelings.

He supposed it could have been something different. Could have been an honest admission of something more than it had seemed, albeit unfortunately worded and timed. There was a lot of space between “just sex” and undying devotion, and Hanzo’s own feelings lived somewhere in that in-between. If McCree lagged a bit behind him, that wasn’t so bad, as long as he caught up eventually.

If that were the case, Hanzo might be able to stomach it, especially considering he had only just begun to piece together that his own investment ran deeper than he had previously cared to admit. 

He groaned to himself. He was getting too far ahead, attempting to anticipate outcomes without enough evidence to suggest which was most likely. 

He didn’t actually know what McCree wanted. He didn’t know if it was even _him._ McCree might only have wanted the first warm body he saw, and his presumption about Hanzo’s willingness was the only thing that made Hanzo himself uniquely appealing. McCree had said that too, hadn’t he? That Hanzo could offer him nothing he could not get somewhere else. 

What McCree had dangled in front of him was a paltry substitute for what he actually wanted. The worst thing, though, was not that he had altered Hanzo’s perceptions of what was possible, but that he’d threatened what already existed between them. Whatever his intentions had been, he’d shaken something Hanzo had grown very fond of. 

Hanzo had worked so hard to protect it from himself that he hadn’t considered McCree could be the one to ruin it. 

If McCree was willing to risk it so cavalierly, perhaps it meant very little to him after all. Hanzo had known going in that McCree’s ability to get along was at least partially put on; they had discussed it again just last night. Hanzo’s belief that _any_ of it had been genuine could so easily be a product of McCree’s brand of deliberate amiability and his own wishful thinking. 

Hanzo felt like a fool.

The thought that he might have misread the situation so profoundly burrowed into his chest and refused to leave. He rubbed at the place where it ached, his jaw tight and throat tighter, as anger filled in and patched over all the emotions that felt too raw. 

No closer to an answer than he had been the night before, Hanzo shoved himself to his feet, and he started the jog back to the house, hoping that the return journey would bring him back to the emptiness. He failed to reach it this time, and he instead spent the entire trek replaying all the things he could recall McCree saying to him, but especially those that seemed perfectly calibrated to injure him. 

The sun beat down on the back of his neck, and the heat and humidity combined until he felt like he was running through soup. By the time he reached the house, he was drenched in sweat. He hoped he might at least be spared from having to see McCree before he’d showered, but even that seemed too much to ask.

Inside, he found McCree awake and sitting at the kitchen table. The only comfort was that he looked at least as terrible as Hanzo felt. McCree began to open his mouth, and Hanzo only said, “No.” He was too fatigued by both his run and his thoughts to form anything more coherent. Then he made a beeline for the shower. 

If he took longer in there than usual, he could blame his need to cool off from a six-mile round trip in unholy weather. But he could admit to himself he also hoped the shower would provide a sudden epiphany on how to make the whole situation less uncomfortable. It seemed fruitless to hope that McCree’s memory had been wiped by the alcohol, given his hangdog expression in the kitchen. 

Eventually the shower ran cold, but he managed to delay further by checking his phone, which had been inundated with messages from Genji. The timestamps indicated they had arrived in the dark hours before dawn, or mid-morning in Gibraltar. 

[Genji]: Is everything ok?  
[Genji]: What is wrong with McCree?  
[Genji]: I really hope these messages mean something stupid and not that you’re in trouble.  
[Genji]: Text me back as soon as you can.

He stared, trying to imagine what McCree could possibly have sent to make Genji worry. He also didn’t know how to succinctly reassure his brother that nothing was wrong without revealing… everything that was wrong. 

[Hanzo]: No trouble. McCree got drunk.

The response was almost immediate.

[Genji]: But you’re okay?  
[Genji]: Wait, he got drunk on a mission?

[Hanzo]: Yes and yes. 

[Genji]: Did something go wrong?

[Hanzo]: No. We went to a party to maintain our cover. There were margaritas. 

He considered again whether this was sufficient. On the one hand, Genji’s insights into McCree could be helpful; on the other, it would require revealing to his brother not only the previous night’s embarrassments but also quite likely the extent of Hanzo’s feelings. It was mortifying enough inside his own head. He was not sure he could stand to let another person in on it, especially one who — apart from being the very last person Hanzo cared to burden — might have an unpredictable reaction. 

The old Genji would have seen any vulnerability as a chance to gain an advantage, even on those rare occasions they got along. Even now, knowing how very much he owed his brother, it was impossible to forget how many times he’d had to protect his most private self. It was not an easy habit to break, and he still didn’t know to what extent that part of Genji had really changed. 

Genji himself rescued Hanzo from chasing that thought too far. Another text vibrated in.

[Genji]: Still not like him to get drunk on the job, but he was always lobbying for us to do Margarita Mondays back in Blackwatch.

No good response immediately came to mind. Even if Genji cared to be drawn into his internal drama, it was hard to imagine he’d enjoy knowing that his good friend had drunkenly made a pass at his brother. 

Sort of. Almost. 

The pass was very strongly implied, anyway.

Irritated, Hanzo set his phone aside. He already had one deeply uncomfortable interaction to look forward to this morning. Genji could wait.

When he returned to the kitchen, he found McCree where he had left him, sitting at the table and bathed in a golden light. Hanzo snorted. Only McCree would think a hangover constituted a good enough reason to abuse their limited supply of biotic canisters. 

McCree glanced at him, and if he flinched it was gone so quickly Hanzo had to second-guess whether it had happened at all. “Made you coffee,” McCree said with a strained, false casualness, before he took a ginger sip of his own.

“It looks like you made _you_ coffee, and I get to be grateful as though my benefitting was not a secondary consideration at best.”

He felt viciously gratified by the way McCree’s whole body seemed to stiffen and by the defensive sullenness of his response, muttered as it was against the rim of his coffee mug. “It was an offer. You don’t have to take it.”

Hanzo said nothing to that, only considered how closely he’d have to pass by McCree in order to get a drink of water. He also did not know how he was going to eat. He surrendered to the reality that he would have to put off both of these things, and he leaned against the counter, as far away from McCree as he could be while still technically remaining in the same room.

The silence stretched thin, then McCree let out a long, heavy sigh and asked, “What are the chances you almost killed us by driving us back here while blackout drunk and you don’t remember a thing from last night?”

“No chance at all.”

“How ’bout you hit your head and it’s all scrambled up there?”

“Still none.”

“Okay. Glad you’re in good health.” Despite himself, Hanzo almost wanted to laugh, but he bit it off quickly in the face of McCree’s cautious smile. “I should— I’m sorry. I was outta line. I shouldn’t have gotten drunk and I definitely shouldn’t have made it weird for you, and if you’re willin’, I can grovel a little or we can forget it ever happened—”

“Then it never happened.”

“Or, uh, we could talk about it. Was the third option. If you want.”

Dread flooded through his body, and he wondered if he should sit down. He also considered making a break for the door. “I most certainly do not.”

McCree’s weight seemed to slump a little heavier on his elbows, the old table creaking beneath. “That’s… that’s fair.” 

The tone of his voice said he thought otherwise. His gaze kept flickering between his mug and Hanzo too, wariness written into every line of his face. But he seemed willing to honor what Hanzo wanted, and it felt strange and inexplicably unsatisfying that McCree didn’t try to push the way he typically did. 

It was discomfiting to see him so… _meek_ , and Hanzo did not enjoy the burden of wielding so much power over him. He remembered McCree’s eagerness to waive Hanzo’s debt to him, and Hanzo thought he understood it now. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to offer the same grace McCree had shown him, not when this was so much more personal, but he could grudgingly make the effort. Ill at ease and a little resentful to be in this position at all, he said, “But it seems _you_ want to talk about it.”

McCree looked up from what was veering dangerously close to a sulk, then he laughed and cut his eyes to the side, metal fingers scratching through his beard. “I’d like to live in a world where I didn’t make a fool of myself or subject you to... all of that.” He waved a hand as if it was meant to be nonchalant, but the violent red of his cheeks contradicted these efforts. “But I can’t have that, so. Uh, yes. We could talk.”

“You could talk, if you must.” 

McCree took a long breath in, then out. “Listen, I really am sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Or I do but—” He let out a frustrated sound. “I had a whole thing planned, you know, but you’re not makin’ it easy. Not that it’s your job to make it easy, but. Maybe I should stick with ‘I’m sorry and I regret it’.”

“You regret which part, exactly?” The question was out before he had consciously given his mouth permission to voice it, and he immediately wanted to take it back. 

McCree still looked wary, but his eyes sharpened as if they had caught on to something. “Which part made you mad?” 

It drove a sharp bolt of anxiety through him, made him incapable of stopping his next words either. “You don’t get to do that,” he snapped. “You don’t get to mock me and then play coy about it. This is not one of your silly card games.”

“Mock you? When did I—” McCree sucked his lip between his teeth and let it drag out slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was much softer. “Hanzo, I swear I’m tryin’ my best to apologize here, but I don’t even know what you want me to be sorry for.”

He was tempted to snap again, but he had already exposed himself enough. He forced himself to speak more slowly. “All of it. You shouldn’t have done it.” 

It was not the first time that McCree’s injured look made Hanzo feel resentful, but it was the first where it was not instantly tempered by his fondness.“You’re right. And I know you don’t owe me any answers, but I’d really— Are you sayin’ I shouldn’t have done it because you’re suddenly wishing you had an HR department to report to, or because it’s personal?” When Hanzo didn’t answer right away, McCree pushed further: “I’m tryin’ to fix this, and knowing what I’m workin’ with could help a lot.”

“I don’t want your guilt.”

“Then what do you want?” McCree’s voice was strained as if he was growing frustrated, and it only agitated Hanzo further. 

“You don’t know already?” Hanzo sneered, unable to stop himself. 

“I really, really don’t,” McCree answered slowly. 

“You are always so sure. Why should this time be any different?”

“Jesus, Hanzo,” McCree finally snapped. “I screwed up, and I’m trying to make it right, and you’re bein’ so fuckin’ stubborn. Is that all you want? Somebody to yell at?”

“I’m not yell—”

“Oh my God, do _you_ even know what you’re mad about?”

“I thought we were friends!” The silence that followed seemed to ring in his ears, giving the lie to his previous insistence about his volume. He found himself suddenly staring hard at the counter top. 

When McCree spoke again, he began so quietly that Hanzo almost did not hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. “We were. Are. Present tense. I hope.” That made Hanzo look over again, and McCree’s face was so earnest it was hard to disbelieve, even with his feelings primed to be hurt. “I like to think I’d apologize to anybody in your shoes, but it’s also about _you_ , because I’m selfish and don’t like you bein’ mad at me. And I don’t know why you’d think—” McCree winced and scrubbed a hand over his face, then he looked pleadingly at Hanzo. “Is there any way we could start this conversation over? Maybe you could sit down?”

Ashamed by his outburst and now nursing an injured pride alongside his tumultuous feelings, Hanzo considered the request in silence. Although it was embarrassing now, he was relieved to know that his worst assumptions were untrue. Something small and fluttering tried to take up residence in his chest, but he suppressed it quickly; McCree valuing their present relationship was still no guarantee he wanted _more_. There were a whole host of possibilities between what Hanzo had most feared and what he most wanted. 

Hanzo weighed the choice, but it seemed most pressing to at least address the yelling first. “I’m sorry I—” He cut off as his hunger suddenly asserted itself, his stomach growling loudly. McCree’s face was caught somewhere between his earnest plea from before and a struggle not to look too amused. Hanzo sighed. “I don’t think I can talk more on an empty stomach.” 

McCree was slowly losing the fight with his smile, although this one was still tentative at best. “Are you sayin’ you’re hangry?”

Some of Hanzo’s anger and frustration remained, but the relief of knowing that McCree shared his most pressing concern made it harder to hold onto those feelings. Hanzo felt his lips twitch. “I may be a little bit hangry.”

“And let’s say I were to solve that problem. Would you be willing to talk again after?”

Hanzo fought the urge to close his eyes, and he pushed back against the fear that tried to wash over him again. “I suppose I could try. With the right sort of food.”

“Okay. Breakfast on me. Anything you want. What’ll it be?”

Hanzo released a quiet, self-conscious laugh. “I’m sure you can make an educated guess.”

McCree’s answering grin was enough to assure Hanzo that he absolutely could. 

He left quickly, although he extracted another promise from Hanzo that he would consider more conversation after. Hanzo fared well enough in answering him while he was present, but the minute the door closed and the loud hum of the truck began, Hanzo felt jittery all over. 

He threw the depleted biotic canister in the trash bag they’d reserved for their more incriminating waste, then he made himself choke down three mugs of water. After a moment, he poured another and set it beside McCree’s abandoned coffee cup. Even with the biotics, he did not think coffee alone was the best way to address a hangover. 

He checked his phone again. There was another message from Genji: _This is what he gets for making me worry._ It was accompanied by a screenshot of Genji’s messages from McCree the night before. They were mostly incoherent, riddled with typos where the words were intelligible at all, and peppered with repetitive “sorry”s. 

No wonder Genji had worried. In his shoes, there would be no telling whether McCree was drunk or drugged or in some kind of trouble, only that he was uselessly typing and insistent that Genji deserved an apology. 

[Genji]: The question remains. What????

Hanzo let out an anxious laugh and debated the wisdom of the possible explanations. 

[Hanzo]: No idea. 

It was not exactly a lie. Genji didn’t respond, but enough time had passed between his last message and Hanzo’s answer that it was safe to assume he was busy by now. This left Hanzo with far too much time to ruminate on how embarrassing his outburst had been. He wondered if McCree found him childish. 

He also wondered what McCree’s answer could mean in the context of his behavior the night before. Hanzo’d had too few friends to draw much from prior experience, and none of them had ever indicated they’d also like to sleep with him — or that they suspected he felt more. Hanzo asked himself how he felt about any of the possibilities that remained, and he was unsatisfied by his own answers. 

He poured his own coffee and sank into the chair across from McCree’s empty one, and now that he’d returned to his thoughts about this, he couldn’t help following that spiral back down to one of the more hurtful conclusions: that McCree was his friend and would have slept with him while drunk and without better alternatives, but that in the daylight and sober and capable of thinking ahead by more than ten minutes, that wasn’t what he wanted. It was better, at least, than believing McCree would happily throw away what they had built just to pursue a one-night stand, but it carried its own complicated set of feelings. 

McCree returned to find him still seated at the table, now-lukewarm coffee left untouched. McCree’s expression said he had some thoughts about what he saw, but he kept them to himself. 

When Hanzo made to get up, McCree waved him off. “I got it,” he said, then set the large to-go bag on the counter and pulled plates down. Obvious tension wove itself through his movements, but he seemed so determined to remain casual that Hanzo did his best to follow suit, however awkward it made their silence. 

McCree had brought back far more food than Hanzo could actually eat, including eggs cooked at least three different ways. He was still busy staring at the spread when McCree put a plate directly in front of him and asked, “Did you know if Sharon likes you enough and thinks your friend looks like he’s in the doghouse, she’ll get the cook to put chocolate chips in your waffles?”

The waffles were speckled with melted brown spots, and topped not with syrup but with whipped cream and strawberries arranged in a slightly crooked smiley face. It did not help Hanzo feel less childish, but it _was_ charming. 

It was in fact such a bizarrely thoughtful gesture that he was unsure how to respond. After a moment of searching he settled on, “I told you she liked me better.”

McCree gave him a quietly strained laugh and didn’t take the bait to banter. He settled into the other chair, and he too stared at the feast crowding the small table as if he hadn’t been the one to provide it. “I… didn’t realize how much it was.” 

“You ordered enough food for an army and somehow did not notice?”

McCree glanced at him only briefly before he instead focused on dragging some of the eggs — those fried and well done, as opposed to the runnier pair or the mound of scrambled eggs — and a slice of bacon onto his plate. “Was tryin’ to cover my bases. Didn’t wanna assume too much.” 

It wasn’t meant to be any sort of censure, was in fact McCree recognizing part of the problem and setting out to correct it in a particularly absurd way, but Hanzo felt it as if he had been chastised. He wasn’t sure what to do besides nod and set into his own food. 

The food was better than usual, and he was sure Sharon had set herself up for future pestering about the chocolate chips. It also went a long way toward settling his nerves, at least as long as it helped to distract from the furtive glances; Hanzo worked very hard to be polite and pretend he didn’t find them deeply unsettling. 

Between his quick looks, McCree picked at his own food until it seemed he reached the limit of his patience. “So,” McCree said too loudly. He instantly looked sheepish, and he lowered his voice. “So. Did you want to have that talk? Not to rush you or anything.” He breathed out hard and determined. “I’m just eager to get on with fixing it, if I can, and maybe—” He glanced away again, and this time he did not continue. 

“‘Maybe’ what?”

“Maybe get around to lickin’ my wounds if it comes to it.” 

Hanzo was not sure he’d ever get over the discomfort of his own bad feelings coexisting with his sympathy for McCree, or if he’d get used to the simultaneous flickers of hope and despair McCree tended to inspire. “I suppose we can talk.”

“Great.” McCree cleared his throat. “So I’m sorry, and I’ll say it more if you need, but the thing is, I know what I think I should apologize for, but I’m not sure what you do? And maybe knowin’ which part upset you the most could help.”

“Which part?”

“Yeah, I mean, there’s the part where I got drunk on the job, which was just really stupid, then there’s the part where I think the, uh, other stuff was generally uninvited, and it’s a shitty position to put somebody in when he’s stuck working with me. But when I get into the specifics, I think…” McCree shifted in his seat, then he set his jaw. “I don’t actually know _why_ it was uninvited.”

It felt like he had been dunked in cold water. “Did you think it was such a sure thing?” He managed, this time, to keep the acid from his voice, but not the embarrassment. It was almost worse that way.

McCree didn’t help. He was watching Hanzo far too closely, and the urge to _squirm_ was nearly overwhelming, but Hanzo thankfully managed to keep that one under control. “No. Not even close.” McCree smiled wryly. “I meant I don’t know if it was uninvited because we were workin’ a job, or because I was drunk, or because we’re technically coworkers, or because it was bad timing, or because it was... me.”

The waffles were bait, and this conversation was a trap. Hanzo wondered if he could escape by sinking through the floor. He became aware of his own expression not because he could feel his face particularly well in that moment, but because he strongly suspected McCree’s increasingly panicked look was mirroring his own.

“Look, I’m not tryin’ to put you on the spot any more than I already did, and you can go on bein’ mad at me if that’s how it’s gotta be.” McCree spoke quickly and was only building momentum, as though he was worried he wouldn’t get to say it otherwise. Given Hanzo’s desire to flee the entire country, McCree’s instincts may have been right. “I’m gonna be honest, I’ve been gettin’ mixed signals for— let’s say _a while_ , and I’d appreciate some clarity, ’cause I’d like to think any of those other options are potentially workable, but if it’s the last I’d prefer to know so I can—” He finally stumbled, mouth moving silently for a moment before he said, “recover?”

It took Hanzo a truly mortifying length of time to register what it was he’d heard, and the longer he let the silence drag on, the more McCree’s face fell, which was unbearable even under the best circumstances. “I don’t understand why you—” Hanzo cut off, sure that it would sound very stupid if he voiced it aloud. “I don’t know what you wanted.”

“I know I tease you about your lack of social niceties, but there’s no way you’re that dense,” McCree said with a laugh that sounded too forced. 

 “No, that part was abundantly clear. I meant the _context_ of it.”

McCree scratched again at his beard and frowned, and for a moment Hanzo both hoped and feared this was where it stopped. Then McCree said, “The _context_ is that we’re friends, and I think you’re stupidly hot, and I thought that might be mutual. Sayin’ so wasn’t supposed to be an insult, more like me… convincing myself after I had to watch you flirt with somebody else, which isn’t your fault by the way, or really my place to be upset about, and I know I even greenlit the plan, and it’s really somethin’ I gotta work on because jealousy is a cancer, and—” McCree laughed, and he took a breath, and he started again more slowly. “And maybe it was there because I don’t know where you stand, and that makes me nervous as hell. But there’s not some dividing line that means we suddenly wouldn’t be friends, as far as I’m concerned, or that I think that’s… less. I want both. I want… I just want _you_.”

“Oh.”

Hanzo was not sure exactly when he had stopped breathing, but the single word came out strained from a lack of oxygen. It was more than Hanzo knew how to process. It was one thing to desire such an outcome and another entirely to actually receive it. 

He only realized how long he had been sitting in complete silence when McCree said, “No rush or anything, but ‘oh’ ain’t exactly illuminating.” His voice was tense, and Hanzo thought he recognized the signs of a man steeling himself for disappointment. 

“I’m sorry, I am… unaccustomed to getting what I want.” He felt his throat go tight as soon as it escaped his mouth. As far as confessions went, the only way it could have been more unfortunate would be if he’d done it the way McCree had tried to last night. 

This fact was punctuated by the concern that warred with McCree’s relieved smile. “We really need to work on the sad way you say things, but I’m gonna assume that’s supposed to mean ‘me too, Jesse, now please kiss me because I am _dying_ for it’.” This last came out gruff and weirdly stilted, and Hanzo was horrified to realize it was McCree’s impression of his voice. 

“I take it back,” he said, although no amount of effort could hide the smile threatening to break out. 

Belatedly, it seemed to hit them both at once that McCree had brought up kissing. Casually, just like that, and not entirely as a joke. Hanzo almost wished McCree had suggested something lewd instead, because then he might be able to excuse the ridiculous heat he could feel in his cheeks. 

He would like to kiss McCree, except now that the option was on the table there was the matter of… well, the table, for one, and the absolutely stupid amount of food scattered over it, and the fact that they were both still sitting, and Hanzo was not sure that _now_ was even the correct time. He could see the wild spiral his thoughts were threatening to take, and he admitted, “I am going to be terrible at this.”

McCree laughed again, brighter than before and louder than he really should have, then he slouched back in his chair with his grin firmly back in place. Now that they had covered the apology and clarified that they both wanted something more, his typical swagger was returning swiftly, and Hanzo suspected it was only going to get worse from here. “Nah, I got faith you can handle it. Breakfast’s gettin’ cold though, cupcake.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have no idea how much I wanted the chapter summary to be "In which Hanzo is very nearly an old man who yells at clouds."
> 
> There is now fan art of this chapter by the wonderful [@miadarkarcher](https://twitter.com/miadarkarcher).
> 
> 1\. [Hanzo in the grass](https://twitter.com/miadarkarcher/status/1144302649724014594)  
> 2\. [McCree looking like hungover garbage](https://twitter.com/miadarkarcher/status/1144252458681733121)  
> 3\. [Eating their breakfast, post-talk](https://twitter.com/miadarkarcher/status/1144295439296077824)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they are the most professional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Hi, the rating changed, because I am incorrigible. 
> 
> 2\. Big, big thank you to [bloomingcnidarians](https://www.twitter.com/bloomingjellies) for betaing.
> 
> Update August 8, 2019:  
> 3\. ANOTHER big, big thank you to [blooming](https://www.twitter.com/bloomingjellies) for [this wonderful fan art](https://twitter.com/bloomingnsfw/status/1159252530452320257?s=20) (spoilers for the chapter!).

Breakfast proceeded without further incident. It was the _after_ that was fraught. 

They put away what food was salvageable for leftovers and tossed the rest. Hanzo washed the dishes and McCree dried, his elbow bumping Hanzo’s gently as they worked. When he handed the last clean dish over, McCree took it from him too slowly, smiling a very peculiar smile. 

It did not take long for the smile to turn sly. “So I was thinkin’, we have several hours to kill before nightfall,” he said much too casually. 

“Are you sure? It might be a good idea to go back over our notes—”

“Hanzo.”

“And we still need to figure out where they’re _storing_ everything—”

“ _Hanzo_.”

“Not to mention check in with Winston and Ashe—”

“I am _tryin’_ to—” McCree’s eyes suddenly narrowed, and Hanzo couldn’t stop his lips from twitching. “Are you fucking with me?” 

“What gave you that idea?” He was not especially good at appearing innocent, so he aimed for carefully neutral instead. 

McCree sighed. “You’re so rude sometimes.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorta mad that I know how rude you are and I _still_ wanna kiss you.”

There it was again, stated so nonchalantly. It hit like several rapid blows to the gut: surprise and fear and something he abjectly refused to call giddiness. He had not lied when he’d told McCree about his relative inexperience dealing with anything like this. He could recall very few kisses in his lifetime that were not an immediate prelude to sex, and even fewer with the sort of person he could even theoretically have feelings for, much less actually _did_.

It had never been something he’d simply discussed while standing together somewhere brightly lit and with his fingertips pruning from dishwater. 

His limbs felt weighed down by the uncertainty. He thought it should matter how and when it happened, especially the first time, and that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? To be nearly forty and experiencing a bout of both nerves and childish romanticism he’d never felt even when he _was_ a child. 

“Did I lose you somehow?” McCree asked. 

Hanzo had been silent too long then, frozen by his own doubts. “I think we should just do it. Get it over with.”

“I really hope you’re not talkin’ like that about kissing me.” 

Hanzo felt himself flush. “I only meant—”

“Like it’s a chore. Wash the dishes, make the bed, kiss me.” McCree sounded entirely too amused with himself, but it was a better response than if he’d been truly offended.

“You’re teasing me,” Hanzo accused. 

“I am. Did you know you get this little twitch when I’m pushin’ your buttons?” McCree reached out and brushed a warm finger along Hanzo’s temple. “Right here.”

It was so surprising that Hanzo could not react at all. From there it seemed a natural transition for McCree’s fingers to slide down and around until they came to rest where the nape of his neck met the back of his head.

“Smooth,” Hanzo said tightly. He felt like someone had snapped him taut, from the base of his spine all the way up to where McCree’s fingers lay. 

“One of us has to be.” McCree sounded amused but distant. His gaze dropped to Hanzo’s mouth. “C’mere,” he said, his voice barely more than a rumble in his chest. 

Hanzo thought his feet might be stuck in one place. He _wanted_ this, and yet he could hardly move. It was another threshold to cross, and there would be no walking it back. 

Even now, after their conversation and everything else, terror gripped him. He feared that this could irrevocably upset whatever balance they’d managed to achieve, that McCree would somehow _know_ better than he did the depths of Hanzo’s feelings, and that this would drive him off. He was exposing himself in ways he was not equipped to handle. Beyond these things, he was increasingly humiliated by his own inaction, by the sudden, shameful timidness, as though he had never done this before in any capacity.

McCree’s eyes were soft, a little unfocused, but Hanzo saw reflected in them some of his own caution. Somehow it was this that steadied his nerves. 

He reached out to settle a hand on McCree’s waist, pulling him closer at the same time as he stepped forward. From there it was only a short distance left to cross, and McCree ducked his head to meet Hanzo halfway.

The press of their lips was surprisingly chaste after everything. It was as though each was equally sure this moment was breakable, and they were taking equal care to preserve it. There was no overwhelming rush of desire, only the anxiety clawing at Hanzo’s insides and McCree’s lips brushing dryly against his own.

McCree was many things, but _sweet_ had never seemed to be one of them. It was almost as confusing as it was touching, if only because Hanzo didn’t quite know what to make of it or how best to respond. McCree kissed him again, lips parted further this time, and that was more familiar, even if Hanzo still felt a tense, writhing pressure in his chest, some certainty that he might find some way to ruin this before it really even began. 

But McCree had indicated he wanted more than any simple kiss with his talk about time to kill, and that sort of thing was less alien. Hanzo couldn’t function on autopilot exactly, but he could at least steer them both toward more familiar territory. He angled his head and went back in, aiming for something well beyond _chaste_. McCree let out a quiet huff of a laugh against his lips when Hanzo pulled him closer, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. 

Then McCree’s phone rang. 

It was tempting to ignore it, except that it could be Winston or Ashe or any number of urgent calls. McCree pulled back with a wince, looked at his phone, then winced again and put a bit of space between them. 

“Yes?” The word stretched out almost like McCree had sung it, frustration laced through every note. While he listened, McCree stared at the ceiling and smiled the sort of smile that was more bared teeth than anything else, as if he’d rather be doing anything _but_ smiling. “We’re takin’ care of it. Told you we’d update you if anything changed. Nothin’s changed.” The rest of his answers were curt, monosyllabic things that fell just short of outright rudeness.

It took three minutes at most, but it was enough time to throw off the mood. McCree smiled, tense and apologetic, as he hung up the phone. 

“Ashe?” Hanzo asked, a guess informed entirely by McCree’s tone of voice.

“Yep.”

Hanzo searched for a moment before he finally settled on something to say. “I’m impressed by your restraint.”

McCree’s laugh was a little too sharp, but there was still something soft in the way he looked at Hanzo. “Yeah, well. Somebody told me I sounded like a real asshole when I talk to her.”

“That is not what I said, exactly.”

“Was close enough.” There was a long, awkward silence. Then McCree said, “So we should maybe… have a plan or something. For this.”

“This?”

“Us. Like do we need to make some kinda schedule? You know. Keep it separate?” McCree shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m just thinkin’, if we have to pick one or the other, maybe there should be some kinda… standard procedure?”

“We are both professionals.”

“Sure.”

Hanzo snorted, unable to entirely contain it. “If there is some… conflict of interest, the mission should come first. But a _schedule_.” He laughed a little. “That’s too far. We will be fine.”

McCree smirked. “You’re right. Mission first. That’s easy enough.”

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

It took very little time before Hanzo began to overthink it. He worked very hard not to be concerned by McCree’s quick and easy agreement to the “mission first” rule. But if he were _going_ to be concerned it would be because he wondered if perhaps McCree had reason to lose enthusiasm. 

The kiss had been… fine. 

It wasn’t that it had been at all unpleasant, it was simply… adequate. Mediocrity embodied in an intimate gesture. 

Hanzo strongly suspected it was his own fault, given the trepidation with which he’d approached the whole affair. Yet it was certainly possible McCree shared some of the blame; he had seemed nervous. It would be easiest to blame Ashe for the interruption. They simply had not had time to get going. McCree had not tried again yet, but they’d both had other things on their mind, and they had agreed: mission first.

It was only that perhaps Hanzo had expected it to be _different_ somehow — had maybe held some expectations wildly out of proportion with reality — but aside from the nerves it had been much the same as any other. Tamer than most Hanzo’d experienced, and maybe not as good as some. 

Maybe, if he were being really and truly honest with himself, not particularly good at all. 

It was difficult to come to terms with. After the torment of McCree’s obscene blue jeans and more intrusive fantasies than Hanzo could count — ranging from the embarrassingly domestic to the embarrassingly filthy — it surely made sense that it wouldn’t be quite what he’d built it up to in his head. 

Hanzo rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He forcibly regulated his breathing. He squeezed his eyes closed, and he summoned the courage to admit that it had been maybe sort of _bad_. Not bad in any way that was particularly dramatic or painful, but still, he had experienced few things in his life that could produce such incredible anxiety and yet manage to leave him underwhelmed.

Perhaps _mission first_ would give him time to come up with a solution.

 

* * *

 

 

There was something almost insulting about the ease with which the next few hours flew by. The day passed more or less the same as they had since their arrival here. McCree remained mostly good company, except when he teased Hanzo just enough to be exasperating. They flirted a little and smiled quite a lot. 

It was almost enough to forget about the kiss, but the distress seemed to lurk just beyond the pleasantness of the day, ready to leap out and seize Hanzo any time he thought he might be safe from it. 

By the time night finally fell, Hanzo was on edge, with no outlet for the energy save the job they had come here to do. Their next target was a more likely candidate for intel than many of those before. Cooke was a bartender out at the biker bar, but he often picked up extra shifts waiting tables at the restaurant where they had first seen the gang members. 

Figuring they could keep an eye on both the target and any of his cohort that happened by, they went to the bar after dinner. They played darts to pass the time, although it seemed that McCree had finally found a way to cheat his way to winning this too: by turning Hanzo’s own tactics against him. It seemed so long ago that he had pestered McCree — flirted with him with perhaps more interest and intent than he’d been willing to acknowledge then — with a few casual touches to put him off his game. 

McCree’s touches were less casual, not least because now there was no joke for either of them to hide behind. His knuckles skimmed down Hanzo’s side just in time to distract him. Rather than hit where he’d aimed, the dart landed just to the side to score Hanzo a single point. 

“So close. What a shame,” McCree said without an ounce of remorse. 

His fingers curled over Hanzo’s hip on the next throw, and the dart flew wide again. McCree didn’t do anything in particular to mess up his third and final throw of the round, but he didn’t have to. Hanzo was still distracted by the sound of McCree’s low chuckle so close to his ear. 

McCree was not nearly as easy to unbalance as he’d been the first time, especially now that he was expecting it. Hanzo supposed he could find some way to shock McCree, but he doubted anything could do the trick that wouldn’t also shock the other patrons. Although Hanzo did better on the following rounds, he never did recover the points he’d sacrificed in the first. 

“Do you _ever_ play fair?” Hanzo demanded once McCree had won. 

“Hell of a question comin’ from the guy who pool sharked me.” 

“That was one time.”

“Only ’cause you can’t get away with it twice!” 

McCree was laughing, and he still had his hands on Hanzo, and they’d done this every day for weeks now, and yet this time felt very different. It was surreal, almost, to know it wasn’t just part of a character, or that if it was, it was an exaggeration of something true. It wasn’t made up wholesale, and it wasn’t the typical, directionless flirting McCree’d always done; this was McCree, as himself, open and affectionate and tactile about it, and directing these things toward Hanzo very specifically. 

It was almost overwhelming to think about, and it assuaged some of his anxieties over the kiss to know that McCree still enjoyed his company. It was unclear how deep any feelings ran, but it had to have been more than could be ruined by a single unfortunate kiss.

Of course McCree’s open affection and Hanzo’s relief also meant that they were smiling very stupidly at each other, and not at all in a manner than suggested they were used to this, as their cover identities would be. He wrestled with the grin trying to overtake his face and squashed down the strange, weightless feeling. Then he soundly kicked McCree’s ass at pool.

 

* * *

 

Tonight’s clientele had more than a few of those on their list of people to question, including a couple — like Cooke — who did not quite dress the part. They would have been harder to come across without Ashe’s list or a lot of questioning. 

Darts and pool had both become tedious by the time anything interesting occurred, and while Hanzo was more than happy to enjoy McCree’s attentions, he was still relieved to have something more to do. Two from their list disappeared through a door just behind the bar. It wasn’t noteworthy on its own, but when another one followed shortly after, and then another, the pattern showed itself.

They couldn’t discreetly follow through that door, but they could hope to either find them outside or maybe find another way in. Outside and around the back of the building, and the paving turned to gravel that crunched under their feet. It was dark this far back, light coming only from the streetlamp in the parking lot and a lone flickering source around the back. There was no sneaking here, so they both put more stagger in their walk than a sober person might have, just in case. They had just rounded the corner when the door swung open violently and a motion sensor light flicked on.

They ducked back around the corner and into the shadows, both suddenly very still. They could hear talking, mostly men’s voices, and mostly benign. Just as Hanzo was wondering if they might get away with eavesdropping, one of the voices commanded someone to ensure they were alone.

Footsteps moved their way, and time seemed to slow down. He and McCree were much closer to this door than to the other end of the building; there was no time to get away unseen. There was not anywhere they could go. They could run or fight, but either would blow their cover. Hanzo scrambled for some way to excuse their presence out here, anything that would be better than their real reason. Stupid, that a poorly chosen time to eavesdrop might blow their cover now. 

Gravel crunched just around the corner, and he glanced at McCree, who looked just as startled as he did. 

Another step, and another. 

There was a moment sometimes in the heat of battle, where a switch flicked in Hanzo’s mind and he went blissfully blank, focused on nothing further than the step immediately ahead of him. Instinct took over, and he was often better for it, sharper than if he’d required time to think. 

This was like that, except it wasn’t a battle at all. 

He shoved McCree backward against the bricks and followed the momentum to press himself close, up onto the balls of his feet, and crashed their mouths together. Whether McCree’s lips were parted in anticipation or shock, he caught up quickly enough with the kiss, one hand in the small of Hanzo’s back, drawing him closer and hot as a brand.

Hanzo’s head spun a little and he might have stopped breathing. It was _nothing_ like the kiss before. It was, in fact, a great deal closer to the fantasies that had plagued him. 

At least until the very loud, strained _ahem_ from off to the side. 

Hanzo broke away reluctantly and with a surge of giddiness that he would blame on the dopamine. He did not meet McCree’s eye before turning to their interloper. 

“Y’all can’t find somewhere else to do that?” asked Cooke. 

Hanzo laughed in a way that even he knew sounded far from apologetic. “Sorry.” McCree laughed, sounding gratifyingly breathless, and he apologized too. It was a mistake to look at McCree, because it certainly did not help either of them stop snickering. Hopefully it helped to sell their alleged drunkenness.

Under the bartender’s glare, they both staggered safely away. McCree looped an arm over his shoulders, and once they had made it to the parking lot, he laughed again. “Smart,” McCree said under his breath. “And definitely not playin’ fair.”

There was no reason to stay that wouldn’t continue to draw attention to them, so McCree drove them back to the house. After quickly deciding that the new plan was to find the files on the men they had seen going through the door while faces were still fresh on their minds, they spent the rest of the drive in silence.

Hanzo wondered if McCree knew that he kept touching his mouth, thumb rubbing along his lower lip. It was distracting and more than a little flattering. 

If he was still thinking about that kiss, Hanzo certainly couldn’t blame him. It was enough that he was able to write the first off as an anomaly, most likely caused by Hanzo’s inability to escape his own head, and perhaps some general first kiss jitters on both their parts. 

At the single stop light they encountered on the way back, Hanzo thought about crawling across the cab of the truck to try it again. The intrusive thought was much more potent now that he had a sense memory to associate with it, but he disappointingly still didn’t have enough to fill in what it might be like to shove a hand down McCree’s tight jeans, which he briefly considered when they finally came to a stop at the house. 

He also considered kissing him against the front door, or maybe pushing him up against the wall in the entryway. The kitchen felt no safer, because it not only conjured memories of the sight of McCree on his back, knees spread wide and his shirt riding up, but it also made Hanzo size up the table and attempt to calculate exactly how much weight and force it would be able to withstand if he bent McCree over it. 

They had to _work_ at that table. Had criminals to shake down and intel to gather, and all Hanzo could think about was exactly how many available surfaces they could fool around on. They stepped carefully around each other, an unspoken agreement that touching would be a particularly bad idea if they wished to accomplish any sort of work tonight. They went over photos in near silence, but McCree occasionally met his eye, and every time brought a small shock. 

More surprising was how much of it felt familiar, like he was seeing the same picture in full color. How had he ever overlooked this? How long had McCree _looked_ at him like that, in that way that made the air feel too heavy on his skin? There was no way to know how much he had truly failed to see and how much had remained suppressed until acknowledging it made it impossible to ignore any longer. 

Hanzo had encountered the phrase _palpable tension_ enough times, but he wasn’t sure he’d understood before now. It trembled in the space between them, expanded and contracted like the lungs of a living thing. 

Mission first.

It took more willpower than it really should have to focus on the task at hand. Hanzo dug through his half of the files looking for familiar faces. There was nothing more tempting than the idea that they should call it a night. They would have their shortlist soon, and there was no telling how long their targets would be gathered where Hanzo and McCree could no longer eavesdrop. 

Hanzo had survived his own desires this long; he was not going to compromise the mission simply because he could not contain his libido. McCree suggested in a strained voice that they should see if they could catch Cooke at home. They stepped gingerly around one another in the kitchen, McCree’s hands hovering strangely as though he would very much like to touch Hanzo but thought better of it.

The drive to their stakeout point was interminable, and the wait in the dark even more so. Hanzo stared straight ahead, watching the road for any sign that their target was on his way home. He tried to let himself be lulled by the rhythmic drumming of McCree’s fingers against the steering wheel, but instead the noise grated across his raw nerves.

His hand was halfway across the cab of the truck before he stopped himself, drawing it back slowly. He’d been about to grab McCree by the wrist to stop him, but that seemed like a bad idea given his current state. “Could you not?” he asked tightly, rubbing his palm over his thigh.

“Sorry,” McCree muttered. The noise stopped, at least, although now he could hear — and feel — McCree shifting restlessly on the bench seat. The pressure made the vinyl squeak beneath him, and Hanzo did his best not to let that get on his nerves too. McCree let out a laugh that was laced with frustration. “This is just about the last thing I wanna be doin’ right now.”

“Don’t.” 

It was a single word, and yet McCree seemed to _know_ somehow. “Don’t what?” Hanzo didn’t need to look at him to know he was smirking; he could hear it. “You don’t wanna talk to pass the time?” 

“I want to focus on the job,” Hanzo answered as casually as he could. 

“Don’t wanna know what I’d rather do?” His voice dropped at the end, lower and rougher. _Smug_. He knew exactly what he was doing. “It’s a pretty long list. Detailed, too.”

Hanzo glanced over. Even in the darkness, he could see the barest outline of a smirk and McCree looking back at him, could feel the same static shock he’d felt before. Hanzo looked away quickly and took a long, steadying breath, but he couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Are you sure this is a war you want to start?”

Now that the silence had been broken, it seemed there was no stopping McCree. He laughed and moved closer. “That a promise to retaliate?” McCree twisted in the seat to face him, and his metal fingers landed on Hanzo’s knee. Hanzo didn’t _say_ anything, but his thighs inched farther apart on their own, and that seemed like all the encouragement McCree needed. “Keep an eye out for our guy. Mission first, remember?” Hanzo was nodding mutely before McCree had finished speaking.

McCree made himself comfortable, with one arm slung across the back of the seat behind Hanzo, and then he kissed Hanzo’s cheek. Whatever innocence might have colored the gesture disappeared rapidly when McCree’s lips dragged along Hanzo’s skin to press another kiss to his jaw, then another below his ear. 

While McCree’s tongue acquainted itself with the shell of his ear, Hanzo kept his eyes locked ahead of him, still watching for their target. Metal fingers dug into his thigh, kneading and slowly creeping up his inseam, and his only response was to spread his legs wider. He dug the heel of each hand into the seat, body rigid, caught between his efforts to stay alert and the desire to actually _do_ something. This was stupid, irresponsible, incredibly unprofessional, and he absolutely was not going to tell McCree to stop. 

“I have spent the last twenty-four hours thinkin’ about you in that _god_ damn swimsuit,” McCree growled, breath hot against his ear and neck. Hanzo laughed, more out of surprise than anything else. He had already nearly forgotten about McCree’s desire to _talk_. “You got any idea what that did to me?”

“Some idea. You were very drunk.” Hanzo’s voice was much steadier than he expected it to be.

“I’m talkin’ before that.” McCree chuckled, caught the lobe of Hanzo’s ear between gently scraping teeth and released it just as quickly. “Second I saw you in it, couldn’t think about anything but fittin’ as much of your dick down my throat as I could get.” 

Hanzo did what he could to withhold the shudder. “Not on Sharon’s quilt.”

“Absolutely on that ugly thing. Hell, I probably woulda done it in front of every person there if you’d asked. Wanted to when we were leavin’. _Definitely_ would’ve in the truck.” Hanzo’s head thudded against the back of the seat as McCree’s hand suddenly found and stroked him through his jeans. It was a fight with himself to keep his eyes from fluttering closed. McCree dragged more kisses up the side of his neck, then he sounded much too pleased with himself when he said, “I’d do it now too. All you gotta do is ask. Maybe promise to pull my hair a little.”

Hanzo was so distracted that he nearly missed what was happening, and he nearly said nothing even after it registered. When he did speak, it was strained and with a laugh that was perhaps bordering on minor hysteria. “That’s him. His car.” McCree’s reaction was similarly delayed, and Hanzo almost hoped he’d ignore it. But they’d agreed. “Mission first,” Hanzo said through his teeth, mostly to remind himself.

McCree pulled his hand and then his body slowly free with a long-suffering sigh. They both did what they could to collect themselves, neither quite daring to look at the other. Hanzo once again found himself internally reciting their grocery list, their list of targets, literally anything to distract from the nearly unbearable pressure. 

Quietly, and muffled by the sound of his mask slipping over his face, McCree muttered, “Out here for forty-five fuckin’ minutes and the asshole can’t give us ten more.” Hanzo silently agreed; he rather hoped this one would resist just for the excuse to rough him up.

They caught him coming out of his bathroom, and they were kind enough to let the poor man sit down on the edge of his bed. McCree once again did all the talking, gun and voice both intimidatingly steady. Questioning Cooke came easily enough; he cracked right away. He rattled off the names of several of those on their shortlist, and he told them a little about how the operation worked too. In all, it was an easy success, and Hanzo could not be bothered to care beyond a sense of relief that it did not take too long.

Returning to the house was another exercise in patience. McCree’s fingers drummed on the wheel again, and they sat in a strained sort of quiet until he finally flicked the radio on. Hanzo flirted with the idea of sidling up to McCree and taking his revenge, but he ultimately left it alone. 

By the time they arrived, Hanzo’s patience had nearly run out. He managed to keep it in a stranglehold long enough to make the tense, anticipatory walk inside, to ensure the alarm system was good to go, to dump their equipment on the kitchen table to be sorted later. He was uninterested in waiting any longer, though. 

McCree was leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. He took a sip of water as though this were all perfectly casual, but the smirk and the way his eyebrow twitched upward made it clear he knew what he was up to here too. Hanzo could suggest the bedroom. McCree might tease him somehow, but he would surely agree to it by now. But he didn’t feel like wasting more time. Besides, the kitchen was the site of so many of their most memorable interactions, whether tense or intimate or wrought with sexual frustration, and Hanzo figured that made it an appropriate place for this too.

He moved closer, and he took great satisfaction in watching the smirk slowly fade from McCree’s face. “What’re you doin’?”

“Retaliating.” He watched McCree’s throat bob. The mug rattled against the counter as he set it down, giving away the unsteadiness of his hands. Most telling, though, was that McCree said nothing at all, simply stared right back at him like he couldn’t look away.

Hanzo held his gaze, and McCree’s eyes widened ever so slightly when Hanzo’s knuckles brushed his belt buckle. When Hanzo started on the button, McCree’s lips parted on a shaky inhale, and his tongue slipped out to wet them in time with the zipper coming down.

He said nothing, only breathed out ragged and quick, as Hanzo slipped his hand inside the waistband of McCree’s underwear, nails scratching through the coarse hair there. Hanzo’s whole body felt hot all over just from this, and he was struck again with the sense that he was getting away with something he should not, but McCree certainly didn’t stop him. Hanzo curled his fingers down, found McCree half hard already, his cock twitching into Hanzo’s grip and swelling rapidly even before Hanzo’s hand began to move.

Hanzo pressed the rest of his body closer too, and he watched McCree’s eyes go hooded, lips parting like he was going to speak but never did. The angle was slightly strange, his hand catching in the cramped space provided by McCree’s underwear, so he shoved the band down. McCree hissed as the cooler air hit his cock, then Hanzo got a proper hold of it and McCree’s body sagged a little, the countertop creaking under his grip.

There was something almost funny about it, about all the tiny, incremental shifts in McCree’s body language, in his face, the way his jaw clenched right before his mouth fell open again, as if he was too stubborn to admit he was losing some fight. He sank more heavily against the counter as he went weaker in the knees, and Hanzo felt something like the thrill of victory.

McCree let out a strangled sound, then seemed to rally himself. His throat bobbed again as he swallowed, then tipped his head back just a little. Braced against the counter as he was, they were nearly of a height now. “It’s sorta weird, you just starin’,” he said, voice pitched lower than Hanzo’d ever heard it; it sent something sharp and hot through him, and McCree wasn’t even _trying_ this time. Was in fact wincing just a little, as if afraid Hanzo might stop at the mildest suggestion McCree might like something different.

Hanzo let his hand slow down, and McCree made another sound through his teeth. “Is there something else I should be doing?” Hanzo asked politely.

There was one answer, almost, in the way McCree’s gaze flicked down to Hanzo’s lips and the way McCree’s tongue darted out to wet his own. What he said aloud, though, was, “Just quit… starin’. Or say something.” He licked his lips again, then he mustered up something almost like a smirk. “Penny for your thoughts?” he joked.

Hanzo smirked right back, leaning in until their noses nearly touched, watching McCree valiantly try to keep his eyes open as Hanzo’s hand began to move again. Per request, he then looked away, looked down instead at the sight of McCree’s cock, flushed red and leaking as it bobbed in and out of the tunnel of Hanzo’s hand. Hanzo’s throat felt too dry for a moment, and at the same time his mouth much too wet; the two combined made it difficult to speak.

He bought himself a moment by shoving McCree’s shirt up, exactly as he’d wanted to every day since he’d caught him repairing the sink, and he got his hand on McCree’s skin. His stomach twitched and flexed, slick with sweat and coarse with hair and trembling beneath Hanzo’s touch, and that was encouragement enough to get the words out. 

“I’m thinking,” Hanzo answered, tone as light and conversational as he could manage, and far more confident than he felt, “about taking you up on your offer.” He pressed his thumb against McCree’s bottom lip, watched it pale under the pressure until McCree pulled the thumb in, lips soft and mouth wet around it. “Or,” Hanzo continued, popping his wet thumb free to circle it around one dark nipple, “I could bend you over right here. Give you something to think about next time you do this to yourself.”

McCree let out a stuttering groan that bordered on whining, but after that he laughed, shaky though it was. “Oh trust me, darlin’, you’ve given me plenty already.”

Hanzo wanted to ask if he meant now or something else, but he refused to get sidetracked. Instead he caught McCree’s glassy eyes again, took in his wide-blown pupils and the way they seemed to darken the iris to a deeper, richer brown, and he asked, “Is that what you want, then?” McCree grabbed at him then, hooked a hand behind Hanzo’s elbow to pull him in. “For me to fuck you?” McCree’s mouth fell open again, but nothing more than a rough, trembling curse came out. “Was that on your list?”

Hanzo punctuated the question with a particularly cruel twist of his wrist, fingers flexing around McCree’s cock. The metal grip on Hanzo’s arm tightened, pulled him off balance, and then McCree’s mouth touched his. Hanzo wasn’t sure whether it even counted as another kiss. Only a clingy press of wet lips against his before McCree gasped again.

Hanzo took the opportunity to seal their lips more firmly together, sweep his tongue into McCree’s mouth, and kiss him as filthily as he knew how, determined that _this_ should be the one they both remembered later. From the helpless sound McCree made, it had to have been successful. McCree’s hips jerked, and then the rest of his body did the same, his shoulders hunching violently as he surged forward. His wet mouth streaked along Hanzo’s cheek before his sweaty forehead dropped and nestled into the space where Hanzo’s shoulder met his neck.

Somehow between the kiss and the end here, Hanzo’s hand had wound its way into McCree’s hair, but he only now got to appreciate exactly how soft it was. He carefully worked a tangle out of some of the damp strands while McCree held him closely and slowly righted his breathing. This, more than anything else in this day full of firsts, felt genuinely intimate. Although he would prefer to be lying down, he wouldn’t have minded staying this way for a good long time, if only it weren’t for the cock straining in his jeans and desperate for even the slightest hint of a touch.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood like that before McCree recovered, but when he did he dragged Hanzo back to the bedroom and dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed. Hanzo’d thought about it more times than he could count, but all of that paled in comparison to the actual feeling of McCree’s mouth on him. He was keyed up enough that just about anything could have done the trick, but he was still left with the impression that McCree was as good at this as he’d imagined. 

It took almost no time at all, and after he had come, McCree pressed him down onto the mattress, took his face in both hands, and kissed him so thoroughly he forgot how to breathe. Eventually their kisses slowed and then stopped, and they curled up in the bed together. McCree flopped onto his back and pulled Hanzo in closely, an arm tugging him tight against his chest. 

Hanzo went a little stiff at first, a reflex that came not from this but from the many, many times he’d been accosted by a sleeping McCree. “Relax.” McCree pet a hand down his arm, laughing quietly. “Don’t act like you’re not a cuddler. I’ve been wakin’ up with you all over me for _weeks_.”

Hanzo went even more still. “ _What_?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” McCree still sounded amused. “You tryin’ to tell me you didn’t know?”

Hanzo huffed, and he considered what to say, and then he grumbled, “Never mind.” It was only a testament to how tired he was that he didn’t bother to set the story straight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me about this in the comments or on [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/robocryptid).
> 
> P.S. chapter summary was almost "in which the mission gets to come first."
> 
> Update August 8, 2019: [bloomingcnidarians](https://www.twitter.com/bloomingjellies) drew this wonderful piece for this chapter, shared on her [NSFW Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/bloomingnsfw): [that scene at the end](https://twitter.com/bloomingnsfw/status/1159252530452320257?s=20).

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful [@miadarkarcher](https://twitter.com/miadarkarcher) drew this series of sketches for Chapter 8:
> 
> 1\. [Hanzo in the grass](https://twitter.com/miadarkarcher/status/1144302649724014594)  
> 2\. [McCree looking like hungover garbage](https://twitter.com/miadarkarcher/status/1144252458681733121)  
> 3\. [Eating their breakfast](https://twitter.com/miadarkarcher/status/1144295439296077824)
> 
> [bloomingcnidarians](https://www.twitter.com/bloomingjellies) drew this wonderful piece from Chapter 9, shared on her [NSFW Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/bloomingnsfw): [that scene at the end](https://twitter.com/bloomingnsfw/status/1159252530452320257?s=20).


End file.
